The morning sun barely touched the towering spires of Volturn Palace, its golden rays struggling to pierce the icy atmosphere that surrounded the heart of the kingdom. Within the cold marble walls, servants moved like shadows, silent and swift, avoiding the wing where the Third Prince resided. To speak his name without necessity was to invite misfortune.

Cid Volturn, the prince born of the third queen, sat by the window of his private chamber, his sharp silver eyes staring into the endless courtyard below. He was clad in black and deep sapphire, colors that mirrored the frost of his soul. Ever since the death of his mother, Lady Seraphina, when he was but ten, the warmth of life had abandoned him. In the court, he was known as the Cold Prince—unfeeling, uncaring, and unyielding.

“Your Highness,” a voice called from the doorway. It was Varren, his most trusted knight. “The council speaks again of marriage. They say it will secure more alliances… and strengthen your claim to the throne.”

Cid’s gaze did not shift from the courtyard. “And I will refuse, as I always do.”

Varren hesitated, then stepped closer, his boots echoing faintly against the polished floor. “The First and Second Princes already gather their supporters. Without alliances, your path grows narrower.”

Cid finally looked away from the window, his face carved from stone. “Allies built on forced affection are like ice beneath the sun—they melt away when strength is needed most. I need loyalty, not hollow vows.”

The knight sighed but knew better than to argue. Cid’s heart, if it still beat with anything other than ambition, had been locked away long ago. Love, warmth, trust—all were luxuries he could not afford.

Later that day, Cid rode through the lower city under the guise of inspecting the outer defenses. Truthfully, he sought silence away from the political machinations of the court. He passed bustling markets and tired laborers until he reached the edge of the slave quarter—a place he seldom cared to notice.

But fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Among the ragged figures being herded for auction, one caught his eye—not for wealth or strength, but for contrast. A girl, barely older than seventeen, stood with her head bowed, hair matted with dirt, yet unmistakably white—like moonlight dulled by clouds. Her skin, though marred with grime, held an unnatural pale sheen, and when the auctioneer yanked her head up by her chin, her eyes flashed open—a piercing, star-like blue, fierce despite their exhaustion.

For the first time in years, something shifted in Cid’s chest—a flicker, faint and fleeting, but undeniable. Curiosity? Pity? Or was it recognition—of another soul drowning in numbness?

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“Ten silvers,” a merchant called lazily.

“Fifteen,” barked another.

Cid spoke without thought. “One hundred.”

Silence fell. The auctioneer blinked, then stammered, “Y-Your Highness…? For a mere servant—”

“Sold,” Cid cut in, already dismounting. “Have her cleaned and brought to the palace.”

As he turned away, he did not see the girl’s wide eyes following him, confusion and fear warring with something deeper—hope, fragile and dangerous. In the heart of the coldest prince, a crack had formed, and through it, light began to seep.

Back at the palace, the girl was led through the servant’s entrance, her weak legs barely supporting her weight. The maids whispered behind their hands, casting curious glances at the rare sight of a slave purchased by royalty. Some muttered of whims and fleeting interests, while others wondered if the Cold Prince had finally gone mad.

Cid, meanwhile, sat in his study, the weight of his impulsive decision settling upon him. What had possessed him to act so rashly? He could not explain it, nor did he wish to dwell on it. Yet, when the steward informed him that the girl had been bathed, clothed, and fed, he found himself rising without hesitation.

“Bring her here,” he ordered.

Moments later, the girl stood before him, her white hair now clean and flowing like silk, her skin pale as moonlight. Though her frame was thin and fragile, her eyes held steady—no longer dulled by exhaustion but sharp, curious, and wary.

“What is your name?” Cid asked, voice cold but steady.

She hesitated, lips parting as though unused to speech. “Lyra,” she finally murmured.

“Lyra,” he repeated, testing the sound of it. “You belong to no one now. You will serve under my household, but not as a slave. Do you understand?”

Her eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her delicate features. “Why… why would you do this?”

Cid’s gaze softened—barely, almost imperceptibly. “Because even the coldest night can be pierced by a single star. Consider yourself fortunate, Lyra. Prove that my decision was not in vain.”

For the first time since he had lost his mother, Cid felt the faintest warmth return to his chest—a feeling unfamiliar, fragile, and dangerous. And in Lyra's hesitant, grateful smile, he saw the beginning of something he could not yet name.

Days passed, and the court's murmurs grew louder. The king himself summoned Cid, his stern face lined with the weight of rulership.

"You defy tradition," the king said, eyes narrowing. "If you will not marry for alliance, you will marry for duty. I give you one moon's time. Choose a bride, or I shall choose one for you."

Cid stood firm, but within him, the flicker of an idea took root. Later that night, he found Lyra tending quietly to the study's hearth. She stood straighter now, no longer hunched by fear, her silver hair glimmering in the firelight.

"Lyra," he said, drawing her attention. "The king demands I marry. I will not bind myself to politics. Instead, I offer you a choice. Stand beside me—not as a servant, but as my bride. You will be protected, free from chains, and I... I will have an alliance born of trust, not deceit."

Her breath caught, blue eyes widening. "You would marry a slave?"

"I would marry the only person in this palace not tainted by ambition," Cid replied quietly. "What say you?"

Tears welled in her eyes, though she quickly blinked them away. "If it means freedom, I accept."

And so, the Cold Prince defied the court once more, wedding the girl with star-like eyes. Whispers of scandal filled the palace halls, but Cid heard none of them. For the first time in years, his heart beat with purpose—not for power, but for something far more dangerous.

Hope.