The grand ballroom glittered beneath countless crystal chandeliers, their light refracting across polished marble and golden pillars like fragments of a fractured crown. Silk-clad nobles filled the hall, their laughter rehearsed, their smiles sharpened by ambition. Every step taken within these walls carried intent.

  I advanced with measured grace, Sylvia clinging lightly to my arm. She wore the flawless smile expected of an imperial princess, greeting the surrounding nobles with gentle nods and polite acknowledgments. Yet every so often, she glanced at me, her lips curving upward in genuine happiness—an emotion far rarer in this palace than gold.

  Applause erupted as we entered.

  It was loud. Impressive. Hollow.

  A courtesy extended not for me, but for appearances. Still, I accepted it. Applause, like power, did not need sincerity to be useful.

  We approached the imperial dais. I bowed slightly. Sylvia lifted her skirt and curtsied with elegance befitting royalty.

  “Your Majesty.”

  “Father.”

  Emperor Gareth inclined his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

  “You look beautiful today, Sylvia,” he said. “You as well, my son.”

  Sylvia’s eyes lit up at the praise. I merely acknowledged it with a nod.

  I understood the truth far too well.

  My father’s words were ritual, nothing more. In his eyes, I was a reminder—a living scar. A child born from loss.

  A child who survived when his beloved did not.

  Perhaps that was why he had always looked the other way when Marielle and I were humiliated, mocked, or quietly crushed beneath palace politics. Indifference was easier than guilt.

  Soon enough, I was dragged into the endless cycle of noble greetings.

  One by one, aristocrats approached with honeyed words and calculated bows. Each smile was sharpened by greed, each compliment layered with intent. They weren’t here for me. They never were.

  Everyone in this hall knew the truth.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  I had no claim to the throne.

  I endured it all with an impeccable smile, masking my disgust beneath practiced courtesy. Nobility, I had learned across countless lifetimes, was often nothing more than decay wrapped in silk.

  Eventually, the music shifted.

  The ball had begun.

  As the centerpiece of the evening, the duty of the first dance fell upon me. Tradition dictated that the honor belonged to one’s mother or fiancée.

  My mother was long gone.

  And my engagement existed in name only.

  In the end, Sylvia insisted—softly but firmly—that she be my partner. I accepted without hesitation.

  Under warm gazes and whispered admiration, we stepped onto the dance floor. Only one stare burned cold against my skin—the unmistakable glare of Empress Isolde Ravelle.

  Sylvia and I moved in perfect synchronization. Our steps were fluid, refined by years of instruction. She smiled throughout, trusting me fully whenever she faltered, and I guided her without hesitation.

  For a brief moment, the palace felt… distant.

  When the music faded, she released my hands reluctantly and stepped aside.

  What followed was a blur.

  I danced with Marielle, then with daughters of powerful houses, then with women whose names I would forget by morning. The empress never approached me, citing illness. No one questioned it. Our animosity was no secret.

  What was questioned—quietly, maliciously—was the absence of my fiancée.

  Whispers followed me like shadows. I ignored them all.

  Then, the music stopped.

  My father stood.

  “I have a few words to say.”

  The hall fell silent instantly.

  “Today, we celebrate the eighteenth birthday of my fourth son,” he continued, his gaze settling on me. “I am pleased by your presence on this joyous occasion.”

  A pause—deliberate.

  “I will now make several announcements. First—Lucan Valemont is hereby named Crown Prince of the Eldoria Imperium.”

  Silence.

  Absolute.

  Marielle stiffened beside me. Sylvia’s grip on my sleeve tightened.

  This was expected.

  What was not… was when he chose to announce it.

  A warning bell rang in my mind.

  “Second,” my father continued, “Edric Valemont will begin his studies at the Aurelian Imperial Academy next week.”

  Murmurs stirred.

  “Upon completing five years of education,” he added calmly, “he will be appointed governor of the Frostreach region .”

  The hall erupted.

  Shock. Whispers. Thinly veiled glee.

  Sylvia went pale. Marielle’s lips trembled.

  Governor.

  A word that sounded honorable to the ignorant.

  Frostreach was a wasteland—poor, isolated, cursed. Monsters roamed freely, rebellions were common, and governors died with alarming frequency.

  Sending a prince there was exile.

  Worse—this exile was announced on my birthday.

  Publicly.

  Deliberately.

  I had always known the emperor despised me. Yet until now, he had never acted openly. The only reason I recognized the depth of his hatred was because I had lived 707 lives before this one.

  Was there a deeper scheme?

  Perhaps.

  But motives mattered little compared to outcome.

  I had been discarded.

  Laughter rippled through the crowd. Rowan failed to hide his delight. Empress Isolde smiled openly now.

  They had known.

  Yet I remained still.

  Calm.

  Expressionless.

  I met my father’s gaze, then bowed deeply.

  “I understand.”

  Turning away, I left the hall behind.

  I am Edric Valemont—a soul that has lived countless lives .

  And across those lifetimes, I learned one immutable truth:

  Those who cast you into the cold should never be surprised when you return as winter itself.