The morning after my awakening, the manor felt different.
Servants moved with their usual grace, the halls were warm with hearthfire, and snow continued to fall softly outside the frosted windows—but something had shifted.
Perhaps it was me.
Word had traveled fast. Emma bowed a little deeper than usual when she entered my chamber with fresh linens. Thomas, polishing my sword at the training rack, paused only long enough to say, "Congratulations, Your Highness," before returning to his work with uncharacteristic solemnity.
Even the air around me seemed to recognize the change. It didn't push against me anymore. It moved with me.
Ser Rowen awaited in the northern hall, beside the stained-glass windows that cast colored light onto the marble floor. Today, he carried not just his sword, but a sealed case of enchanted scrolls—training tools, no doubt.
"Your Highness," he greeted me, and this time, I swore there was something more behind the words. Not warmth. Not familiarity. But respect.
He gestured toward the garden balcony, where the snow-covered training grounds shimmered in the pale sun. "Today, we begin proper spellcasting. Defensive formations, mana channeling, and elemental technique. But first—" He paused, then glanced at the snow beyond the glass. "You'll meet someone."
I frowned slightly. "Someone?"
He didn't answer, only stepped aside as heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor.
A woman approached—tall, sharp-eyed, and wrapped in a traveling cloak that shimmered faintly with protective enchantments. Her long dark hair was braided in the northern style, and her gaze was piercing, measuring me with a single glance.
She dropped into a formal bow, her voice low and steady. "Your Highness. I am Elara Veyne, Court Mage of Vinterheim."
The name stirred something faint in my memory. I'd heard it once, years ago. A reclusive mage, once a prodigy of the Capital's Academy, now bound to Vinterheim in loyal service to Father.
"She's here on His Grace's orders," Ser Rowen said quietly, "to oversee your magical education."
Elara straightened, her expression unreadable. "The Archduke believes it is time your training expanded beyond Knight doctrine. You will learn discipline from Ser Rowen. But I will teach you to wield your birthright."
'So I'm to have two mentors now.'
I met her gaze. "I accept your guidance, Lady Elara."
That earned the faintest nod.
"The first step is understanding what lives within you," she said, her fingers brushing over a thin tome tucked beneath her arm. "You have formed your core. But what lies beyond that is not simply magic—it is Domain. And Domain requires understanding."
She led us outside, where the light snow flurried over the stone steps. Elara raised a hand, and the snow around us halted in the air.
Not fell. Halted.
Dozens of tiny flakes hovered motionless in a perfect sphere around us, glittering like suspended starlight.
"This," she said softly, "is control. Not of ice. Not of weather. But of the space where your magic lives. The Domain of Winter is more than frost. It is silence. Stillness. Sovereignty."
I watched the snow, transfixed.
"You will learn to create such a space," she continued. "A world that answers to your will. But you must first command the self before you can command the storm."
Elara snapped her fingers. The snow crashed to the ground in a gentle flurry.
"Begin by breathing. Draw mana into your limbs. Envision it—not as fire, not as light—but as stillness that spreads from within. Do not rush it. Let the cold arrive. Let it remember you."
I closed my eyes and obeyed.
The cold didn't bite. It welcomed me, as it had last night.
And slowly, like snow falling on calm water, I began to shape the space around me.
The frost whispered at my fingertips.
Not loud. Not grand. Just... present. Like a memory I'd never forgotten.
I breathed deeply, letting my mana settle, pulse by pulse. It responded quicker now, no longer coiling in resistance but opening to me—cool and familiar, like slipping into a second skin.
The courtyard around me began to shimmer faintly. The air stilled. Not just quiet—but held. As if nature itself hesitated, pausing mid-step to observe.
And then the frost spread.
First along the stones beneath my boots, then in delicate spirals outward—thin filigree patterns lacing across the ground, each one more intricate than the last. The air cooled, enough for my breath to fog, but not bite.
Stillness. Not suppression. Silence, not void.
I opened my eyes.
Ser Rowen watched silently, arms crossed. Elara, however, stepped forward.
Her voice was low but precise. "That… was Domain in its infant form."
I blinked. "Already?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Your blood remembers. The rest is training."
Ser Rowen moved to my side, his tone still clipped, but lighter than usual. "You will begin integrating this into your forms. Control like that can shield, can shatter, can kill."
"I'd rather it protect first," I murmured, looking down at the patterned frost.
Elara's eyes softened—barely. "Then you'll learn how to shield. Show me."
She raised a hand, and I barely registered the pulse of mana before a needle-thin dart of ice shot toward me.
Instinct surged.
I didn't flinch. I pulled my mana close and shaped it with thought alone.
A fan of crystalline shards burst up from the ground, catching the dart mid-flight. It shattered with a clean, clear ping, the sound ringing through the courtyard like the first strike of a chime.
The ice barrier melted into mist a moment later.
Elara's lips twitched. "Not bad for a beginner."
Ser Rowen added, "Fast reaction. Too much power, though. You'll exhaust yourself if you keep reinforcing everything at that scale."
I nodded, still catching my breath. "Then I'll learn to do it better."
They exchanged a glance. Approval lingered in both expressions—subtle, but present.
And so the lesson continued.
Hours passed beneath the grey sky. We moved from shield work to burst spells, to tracing precise formations with narrowed flow. The training was relentless, and I made more mistakes than successes. But each error taught me something.
How to pull less. How to aim sharper. How to feel the limit before crossing it.
When Elara finally called for rest, my coat was soaked through with melted snow and my hands trembled with fatigue. But beneath it all... was pride.
Real, solid pride.
As we made our way back to the manor, I glanced up at the towering spires of ice-crusted stone and the banners that flew our crest—blue and silver.
"I want to protect this," I murmured aloud, not meaning to.
Elara, walking just ahead, paused but didn't look back.
"You will."
Later that evening, after a long bath and a change into thick woolen robes, I stepped into the solar, where the warm golden light of the hearth glowed against polished stone. The scent of cinnamon and fir hung in the air—Emma must've lit the winter candles.
Father stood near the high window, hands clasped behind his back, his silhouette framed by the slow-falling snow.
"You've made progress," he said without turning. "Elara told me."
I stepped beside him. "She nearly skewered me with ice, actually."
A small chuckle. "That sounds like her."
I looked at him. "How did you train, Father? When you first awakened?"
He was quiet for a long moment, then turned to me. "Alone. In a frozen valley far north of here. My father believed solitude forged stronger men."
I frowned. "Did it?"
"Yes," he said simply. "But not better ones."
I nodded slowly.
"Your path will not be the same, Claude," he said, turning fully now, eyes meeting mine. "You are meant to be more than strong. You are meant to endure—and lead."
"I'll try."
"You'll do more than try," he said. "You must."
There was no pressure in the words. Just truth.
Then, gently, he placed his hand on my shoulder.
"You made your first Domain today."
"…A small one."
He shook his head. "A beginning is never small."
I looked down, then up again. "Did you know I'd get this far, this fast?"
"No," he said. "But I hoped."
That night, I stood once more at my window, watching the snow fall like silver feathers. My breath fogged the glass. I drew a small shape with my finger—just a snowflake—and smiled when the frost followed, crystallizing in the exact shape I traced.
The magic was mine now.
Back inside the manor, after the training had concluded and I'd changed into drier clothes, I was summoned to the formal drawing room.
I recognized the scent of spiced tea before the door even opened.
When I stepped in, Mother was seated near the hearth, her golden hair loosely braided over her shoulder. A porcelain cup rested in her hand, steam curling upward like a halo.
She looked up, smiling gently.
"Come here, Claude."
I crossed the room, feeling the plush carpet beneath my boots.
Father stood beside her, a ledger in hand. He closed it with a soft snap and looked at me with that ever-measured gaze of his—neither cold nor warm, just weighing and exact.
Mother reached for my hand as I came closer. "Your mana has fully stabilized at Awakened, StageV."
I blinked. "Already?"
"You've surpassed every expectation," she said, eyes soft with something deeper than pride. "There is no one in the Empire your age—perhaps not even two or three years older—who has reached this level."
I opened my mouth, then closed it. My chest felt oddly tight, and I didn't quite know what to say. "I just… did what you taught me."
Father stepped forward. "No. You endured what we gave you. And shaped it into your own."
His voice dropped slightly, steady as stone. "Your mother and I awakened before sixteen. You have done so before your sixteenth winter as well. But you reached StageV within weeks. That is not normal, Claude."
His words sank in, heavy but not burdensome.
Mother gave my hand a squeeze. "The blood of Valerius and Vinterheim run strong in you. But more than that, you are you. That matters more than any legacy."
"…Thank you," I said quietly, unsure how else to respond.
I meant it. For their pride. For their belief. For every lesson, even the harsh ones.
Father nodded once. "This progress will be known, but not yet announced beyond our borders. Let them wonder. Let them guess."
Mother added, "And in the meantime, let us celebrate—quietly."
A knock at the door signaled Emma's return. She stepped in carrying a silver tray with a modest cake dusted in snowberry glaze.
I stared at it.
"…Is this normal?" I asked, eyeing the dessert.
Mother gave me a rare grin. "No. But you've earned it."
Later that night, I sat alone in my room, watching frost creep gently along the windowsill.
The fire crackled quietly behind me, warm against my back while the cold outside tapped against the glass in soft gusts. The cake had long since been eaten, the warmth of the drawing room replaced by a different kind of quiet.
Not silence—but peace.
I stared out into the snow-covered courtyard, eyes following the soft drift of flakes in the moonlight. My breath fogged faintly as I exhaled.
I could feel it now.
Mana, steady and clear, flowing through me not just as energy—but as a part of me. Not inherited. Not borrowed. Mine.
It still felt surreal, that I'd awakened so soon. That I had crossed the threshold no longer as a boy trying to understand his magic, but as someone stepping into the vast unknown ahead.
And yet… it didn't feel daunting anymore.
'This is real,' I thought. 'This is happening.'
I was Claude Lysander de Valerius Vinterheim.
Born of ice and light.
And I had taken my first true step into the world of power.
Not with fear, but with certainty.