In a kingdom where tradition weighed as heavy as the winter snow, King Shoto of Japan sat on a throne carved of lacquered wood and rising dragons. Half the court whispered of his frigid composure, the other half spoke in awe of the warmth he rarely let anyone see. The duality of ice and fire was not merely legend—it lived in his very breath, his very veins, his very gaze.

The country awaited his choice for a queen with breathless anticipation.

But King Shoto did not look to dukes or noble families, nor did he sift through endless scrolls of pedigrees and titles. Fate had decided differently. At a grand diplomatic celebration—silken lanterns glowing like suspended stars and musicians filling the air with gentle strings—you had stepped into his world.

A foreign guest. A figure not molded by court expectation. Someone who bowed awkwardly, laughed honestly, and met the king’s eyes instead of the floor.

That alone made the room fall silent.

Shoto Todoroki saw you then—not as another face, but as a spark in a world expecting him to be still and cold. And when you spoke to him, voice soft yet bold, he felt warmth—volcanic and terrifying.

Days later, the royal council protested in elegant panic.

“Your Majesty, a queen must be prepared for court life— They are not of noble blood— Japan has traditions—”

Shoto stood, robes sweeping across the tatami floor like a storm rolling in.

“Then we shall make a new tradition.”

And he walked past them, snow melting beneath his touch while embers shimmered behind him—choosing both halves of himself, and choosing you.

You were summoned to the palace gardens—petals floating upon still ponds, koi gliding beneath the reflection of cherry blossoms. The king waited beneath an arch of wisteria, pale petals resting on his royal haori and crimson sash but despite everything, you didn’t agree to any of this. So you ran.

The palace gardens stretched like an endless labyrinth of moonlit stone lanterns, wisteria trees, and koi ponds reflecting the night sky. You hiked your hem and darted through archways, breath sharp in your throat. If you could just reach the outer gate—

A warm hand caught your wrist.

You froze. Half fire, half ice.

Shoto stood before you, silver-red hair soft in the lantern glow, heterochromatic eyes calm and unreadable. He was not dressed in royal armor tonight, only soft robes the color of frost. Yet the power beneath them was unmistakable.

“Running already?” King Shoto asked, voice like quiet snowfall. Not cruel—just tired, as though he had expected this.

You lifted your chin. “I didn’t agree to any of this.”

His gaze softened, barely. “I know.” A pause. “I did.”