The world I inhabit is a curious confluence where warmth meets an unyielding chill. I often wonder if my own spirit possesses enough heat to thaw the frost surrounding me, or if I am destined to be consumed by it. In the eyes of the Empire, I am a pariah—a child whose life was inverted by a single, catastrophic shadow.
I am Theodore Orlo Zayn Cubresia. To the world, I am the heir to the Cubresia Duchy. To my father, Duke Killian, I am the murderer of my own mother. I am a boy longing for the sanctuary of a father's embrace, yet I have known only the sterile silence of a lineage cursed by its own prominence. To survive, I donned a mask of ice, detaching myself from the denizens of the manor until I became the "Coldest Son of Cubresia."
Year 1123, The Cubresia Ducal Estate
The afternoon sun spilled across the manicured gardens, yet it offered little comfort. I sat opposite Baron Kranis, the steam from my tea rising in a delicate, fleeting ribbon.
"Young Master," the Baron began, his voice carrying the weight of practiced deference, "I must ask your indulgence. I shall fulfill your request for the Pembroke manuscripts this evening, but I cannot tend to the matter immediately. I have a prior engagement of great importance regarding my daughter."
I set my cup down with a soft clink, my expression unreadable. "Pray, do not haste on my account, Baron Kranis. My curiosity is vast, but it is not impatient. Attend to your family; a father's time is a fleeting currency."
The Baron sighed, his gaze lingering on me with a pity I found difficult to stomach. "You remain as solitary as ever, Young Master Theodore. Life finds its true luster only when shared with a companion. Surely a boy of your years tires of the silence?"
I met his eyes with a stare as sharp and polished as a winter diamond. "I find the company of my own thoughts far more predictable than the whims of a crowd, Baron. A crowd is merely a collection of daggers waiting for an opening. Isolation is my armor."
Despite my coldness, the Baron offered a sad, knowing smile—the look of a teacher who sees the cracks in a student's porcelain mask. I rose from the table, smoothing the silk of my tunic.
"I shall leave you to your business. I must return to my chambers to attend to my studies, lest my father find further reason for his displeasure. Good day, Baron."
As I traversed the grand hallway, the air grew heavy. The silhouette of Duke Killian Cubresia appeared at the far end, tall and imposing as a monolith. My heart hammered against my ribs, yet my face remained a lake of still water. We stopped several paces apart—a distance that felt like a canyon.
"Father," I said, my voice a flat, monotonous chime. "I trust your day has been productive?"
The Duke did not answer immediately. He looked down at me, his eyes brimming with a visceral disgust that chilled me more than any winter gale.
"See to it that you do not bring embarrassment upon this House, Theodore," he replied. His voice was like grinding stones. "Your existence is already a debt you cannot repay. Do not add incompetence to your list of sins."
He brushed past me without a second glance. I stood frozen, clutching my book to my chest, waiting until the echo of his footsteps died away before I dared to breathe.
In the shadows of the pillars, the maids began their rhythmic whispering—the true soundtrack of the manor.
"Poor Lord Theodore," one murmured, her voice dripping with hollow sympathy. "To be looked upon with such loathing by one's own kin..."
"Look at his eyes," another whispered. "They are devoid of light. He is becoming the very image of the Duke. It is the Cubresia curse—power in exchange for a soul."
I walked on, ignoring them. I wondered if I should summon the twins for a distraction, but the weight of the "Legacy of Cubresia"—depicted in the looming oil paintings on the walls—reminded me that I was a child playing at being a statue.
The heavy oak doors of my bedchamber groaned open, and the chill finally began to dissipate. Eleanor, my only confidante, was there. She was the only soul allowed to see the boy behind the title.
The moment the door latched, my "noble" posture collapsed. "Eleanor!" I cried out, my voice finally cracking with the energy of an eight-year-old. I sprinted across the room, my blue eyes shimmering as I threw my arms around her waist. "Where were you? I've been dying of boredom and bitterness!"
Eleanor laughed, a warm, melodic sound that felt like sunlight. She patted my head and gently pinched my cheeks. "My dear Theodore, I was merely finalizing my duties so I could devote my full attention to the adorable little lord currently clinging to me."
"Elea!" I giggled, the sound foreign even to my own ears.
After a few moments of playful chasing around the room, a sudden exhaustion washed over me—the cumulative weight of the day's performances. I stopped and reached my small hands upward, an unspoken plea for the comfort I was denied everywhere else.
Eleanor froze for a second, her eyes wide with sentimental shock. I had never asked to be carried before; I had always been too proud, too determined to be "the heir."
"Oh, my sweet boy," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "How could I ever make you wait?"
She lifted me into her arms, cradling me against her shoulder. Even at eight, I felt small in the vastness of the world, but safe within her embrace. As she walked toward the bed, she spoke softly.
"Theodore, there is news. A young lady of high standing will be arriving tomorrow morning to stay for a duration. The Duke commanded that you be informed, as you are expected to play the host."
I stiffened in her arms. "Has Father invited a critic to observe my failures, Eleanor? Is she here to mock me?"
"We can only pray she possesses a kind spirit," Eleanor murmured, smoothing my hair. "And if she does not, I shall ensure she finds no purchase to harm you. My beloved Theodore will not be humiliated while I draw breath."
I tried to respond, to tell her I was tired of being a spectacle, but the rhythm of her heartbeat and the warmth of the room lulled me into a sudden, deep sleep.
Eleanor looked down at the sleeping boy, her expression turning somber. "Sleep, my little star," she whispered to the empty room. "You wear your mother's mask of ice to hide a heart that burns too bright. I promised her, as you entered this world, that I would protect you from the storm. You did not ask for this crown of thorns, and you shall not bear it alone."
She pressed a soft kiss to my forehead and tucked the heavy velvet furs around me, leaving the "Coldest Son" to dream of a warmth he only knew in shadows.