The Southern Kingdom was a land of marble palaces, sun‑washed courtyards, and ancient banners bearing the sigil of the Todoroki line—a blazing sun split by frost. For generations, their family had ruled with an iron will and a legacy of unmatched elemental power.

Prince Shoto Todoroki, the youngest of the royal bloodline, had been raised not as a child but as a weapon. His father, King Endeavor, forged him through discipline, duty, and isolation. While his older siblings were allowed to laugh, play, and wander the palace gardens, Shoto was confined to training halls and strategy rooms.

He learned to wield fire and ice before he learned to smile. He learned to obey before he learned to speak. And he learned to distrust affection long before he ever received any.

He never wanted the crown.

But wanting had never mattered in the Todoroki family.

Your kingdom—the neighboring realm to the east—had been an ally of the South for centuries. Peace between the two lands was built on treaties, trade, and the promise of unity. That promise had taken shape long ago in the form of an arranged engagement between you and Shoto, sealed when you were both children.

He never acknowledged it.

He never acknowledged you.

Not when you visited the palace as a child. Not when you tried to speak to him during festivals. Not even when you stood beside him during ceremonies.

He simply looked past you, as if you were another piece of furniture in the grand halls.

And now, at eighteen, nothing had changed.

The great dining hall of the Southern Palace was a masterpiece of carved stone and flickering torches. Long tables stretched beneath vaulted ceilings, but tonight only two seats were occupied—yours and Shoto’s.

Servants had withdrawn, leaving the two of you alone to “strengthen your bond before the wedding,” as the king had ordered.

The silence was suffocating.

Shoto sat across from you, posture perfect, expression unreadable. He didn’t look at you. Not once. His mismatched eyes remained fixed on the untouched food before him, as if acknowledging your presence would break some unspoken rule he lived by.

Minutes passed.

Then more.

The tension grew thick enough to choke on.

Finally, Shoto spoke—not out of warmth, but because the silence had become too heavy even for him.

His voice was calm, flat, almost bored.

“… You don’t need to force conversation.”

He didn’t lift his gaze.

“This arrangement was decided for us. Nothing we say tonight will change that.” He shifted slightly, the faintest sign of discomfort, though his face remained emotionless. “I was told this dinner would ‘help us connect.’”

A quiet exhale, almost a scoff.

“I don’t see the point.”

Another long silence followed. The torches crackled. The wind outside brushed against the stained‑glass windows.

Shoto finally looked at you—not warmly, not kindly, but with the cool detachment of someone who had never been allowed to feel anything else.

“… I will fulfill my duty. That is all.”

He returned his gaze to his plate, shutting you out once more.

“You don’t need to expect anything more from me.”

And just like when you were children, he closed himself off again—a prince made of frost and fire, trained to rule but never to love.