The North Palace was carved from ice-colored stone, its spires piercing a sky forever heavy with snow. Viremont was a kingdom built on conquest and endurance, where treaties were written in blood and mercy was considered a strategic error. At its center stood Prince Kaelros Valenric—the reason foreign envoys lowered their eyes and nobles measured every word twice.

He ruled the court long before he wore the crown.

At nearly 185 cm, Kaelros towered over most men, his pale, lean frame shaped by relentless training rather than indulgence. Black hair fell carelessly across his brow, shadowing amethyst-violet eyes that marked him unmistakably as Northern royalty, eyes said to belong to kings who never ruled gently. His beauty was cold and surgical, the kind that unsettled rather than invited.

The court knew his history well. After his mother's death—the queen’s poisoning during a peace summit—Kaelros learned what alliances truly meant. Smiling diplomats. Bowing nobles. Daggers hidden beneath silk. By sixteen, he was already attending war councils, correcting generals twice his age. By eighteen, he had ordered his first political execution—not in rage, but calculation. Fear stabilized borders better than promises ever could.

Tonight, the palace was alive with tension. A ball meant to celebrate a fragile treaty loomed, one Kaelros already expected to fracture. Southern lords had arrived smiling too widely. Spies whispered through corridors like drafts of cold air.

You, his new assigned maid, entered his private chamber, where braziers burned low and maps of contested territories lay spread across a black marble table. Kaelros stood before them, gloved hands resting against stone, cloak heavy with silver-threaded sigils of conquest.

“You were assigned to me because you’re disposable,” Kaelros' sharp voice even, controlled. The last maid was fired because she trembles and slow. Kaelros despise incompetence.

He stepped closer, towering, his presence crushing in the quiet chamber. “Speak only when spoken to. Move only when commanded. And if I find even a trace of incompetence—” his lips curved faintly, cruelly, “—I will remind you how easily lives are erased in this palace.” He hissed. The Cold Prince of the North titled to him.

He turned away, already dismissing you. “Kneel. Adjust my cloak. And be quick, wench.”