Chapter One: The Hollow Prince
A story of ice, betrayal, and forbidden love begins...
The setting sun bled across the sky in streaks of molten gold and dying crimson, casting long shadows over the marble courtyards of the Winter Palace. The air was sharp and cool, brushing against the towering white spires with a ghost's touch. Yet despite the beauty unfurled before him, Prince Kimo stood unmoving, a silhouette of defiance against the gilded world around him.
He was a striking figure, tall and lithe, with a presence that could silence even the most talkative courtiers. His long, straight black hair, tied in a severe high ponytail, gleamed like polished obsidian under the dying light. Against the dusk's softness, the icy brilliance of his eyes — a sharp, unnatural blue, like the frozen lakes of the northern cliffs — stood out even more cruelly. His face, sculpted in elegant, stoic lines, betrayed none of the turmoil raging beneath his skin.
The wind stirred the heavy blue velvet of his royal cloak, but he did not move. He merely gazed down at the kingdom sprawling beyond the palace walls — a kingdom he was meant to rule, yet one that felt like nothing more than a crumbling weight chained to his soul.
Memories gnawed at him, as constant and biting as winter itself.
Once, these halls had been filled with warmth. Laughter had chased down the endless corridors, carried by a woman with hair like dark silk and a voice full of light. His mother. Queen Elira.
Her love had been the sun around which his young world orbited — until she vanished. One evening she had tucked him into bed, kissed his forehead with whispered promises of tomorrow. By morning, she was nothing but silence, her name forbidden even to the lowest servant.
The official tale was swift and neat: a sudden illness, a tragic death.
But Kimo had heard the whispers that oozed like poison from the palace walls.
Murder.
Betrayal.
His father's betrayal.
The king, Ryon of House Ceryne, still wore his crown with the arrogance of a man who believed himself above fate. His once-dark hair had been replaced by a cold crown of silver, cropped close against his aging skull. His once-warm eyes had hardened into steely pits of ambition. The people might have cheered him in the streets — but within the palace, fear ruled where love had long since withered.
And so Kimo grew up in a kingdom ruled by suspicion and secrecy, his own heart icing over year by year.
Where once there had been a boy full of wonder, now stood the Hollow Prince — a man who trusted no one, loved nothing, and owed loyalty only to the ghosts of the past.
The heavy stomp of boots broke the evening stillness. Kimo did not turn as Lord Damarion, the king's advisor, approached with a bow so deep it stank of mockery.
"My prince," Damarion rasped, the words hollowed of true respect. "His Majesty requests your presence at the feast tonight."
Kimo's lips curled into the faintest mockery of a smile.
"Requests," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, the coldness of it sharp enough to cut flesh. "How generous."
He knew better than to refuse. A command wrapped in silk was still a command.
Without sparing Damarion another glance, Kimo turned and stalked back through the great glass doors into the palace proper, the fading warmth of the sun abandoned behind him.
The Winter Palace swallowed him in marble and shadow. Gilded statues lined the halls — kings and queens long dead — staring down with blank, judging eyes. The air smelled of old stone and colder secrets.
It was then, in the corner of his vision, that Kimo caught a glimpse of something — someone — unfamiliar.
A girl. A maid, judging by the plainness of her dress and the way she hugged a tray close to her chest as she hurried past. She moved differently than the others: light-footed and unafraid, her steps quick but not panicked, her head bowed respectfully but not crushed under the invisible weight of fear.
Golden hair, loose and untamed, spilled from the careless knot at the nape of her neck, shining like captured sunlight in the dim corridor. Her skin was sun-kissed, glowing faintly against the cold gray of the palace walls.
And when she glanced up — just for a second — Kimo glimpsed her eyes: amber, soft and burning, the color of hearth flames.
There was no fear in them. Only something warmer. Brighter.
Alive.
It was ridiculous — foolish even — but for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, something stirred inside him. Something fragile. Something dangerous.
The girl disappeared around the corner before he could gather his thoughts. The distant clang of banquet preparations echoed through the stone halls, a reminder of the role he was expected to play tonight: the dutiful son, the frozen heir, the mask carved in flesh.
Kimo straightened his spine, shoving the foolish warmth down into the abyss where his heart used to beat.
In this palace, softness was a death sentence.
And the Hollow Prince had survived too long to forget it.
The Hollow Prince has seen a spark of warmth in the cold...
But in a kingdom built on betrayal, even a small flame can be dangerous.