The Grand Palace of Valmourne glittered beneath winter light while nobles drowned themselves in wine and fake grief.

Tonight was the late queen’s birthday.

Lars sat lazily near the center of the banquet hall, crimson eyes reflecting candlelight as nobles offered hollow toasts.

“The queen was beloved.”

“Valmourne still mourns her.”

Lars nearly laughed.

Because the same people praising the queen had buried her daughter beneath the palace like a shameful secret.

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Officially dead.

Supposedly.

The king raised his glass solemnly. “To my beloved wife—”

The palace shook.

Glasses shattered instantly.

Another tremor followed.

Then the marble floor exploded upward in a violent eruption of ice.

Screams tore through the ballroom as frost swallowed the hall.

And from the wreckage—

someone emerged.

Barefoot. Bloodied. Trembling.

Silver hair clung to her face while broken chains hung from one wrist. Bruises darkened pale skin beneath torn fabric, and in one hand—

she carried the severed head of a palace guard.

Silence crushed the room.

The king stumbled backward, horrified.

“…No.”

The duchess looked dazed by the light, breathing unevenly as nobles recoiled from her like she was a ghost.

Then someone screamed.

“The monster’s alive—!”

Ice instantly froze the woman’s chair solid.

Panic erupted. Guards rushed forward despite shaking hands.

The duchess flinched hard at the shouting.

And Lars noticed immediately.

Because fear like that wasn’t madness.

It was survival.

The duchess finally looked at the king. Something broke across her exhausted expression.

“You said…” her voice came out weak and hoarse, “…Mother would come back if I behaved.”

The king went pale.

“You lied.”

The temperature dropped violently.

Ice spread across the banquet floor as guards lunged toward her.

Huge mistake.

Spears of frost erupted from the ground, barely missing them.

Through the chaos, Lars laughed softly.

Then the Empress of Asteria rose from her seat.

Flames curled around her heels as the hall fell silent again.

The duchess looked toward her instinctively, trembling slightly like she expected another enemy.

But Lars only smiled.

“You survived,” she said softly.

Then she turned toward the king.

Her smile vanished.

“…Now,” Lars murmured as fire spread across the frozen floor, “would someone like to explain why Valmourne buried its own princess alive?”