ICE COLD HEART

Prologue

screaming is all that could be heard as the fire blazed killing those who got too close to the destructive magic, that’s when he felt his skin was melting. It was so excruciating but then it went cold. Two strong men lifted him, taking him away with much haste. When he woke he had bandages around half of his face and his vision was extremely blurry. Soon enough a doctor came in and levitated a mirror in front of his face after the bandages were removed.

He screamed his face had melted and his eye was gone. He held his face and suddenly a question burned into his head, the stinging words left his mouth slowly like they hurt to say “My mother?...”. The Doctor’s words stung like daggers in his skin adding to the feeling that his life was over, After all, who would want to look at the monstrosity that was his face? Suddenly a man whose presence commanded nothing but respect and fear walked into the room. His appearance could only mean one thing and the doctor only proved his suspicions “Y-Your majesty!”.

He shot up from his bed, shaming himself for his thoughts “It was years ago Roman get over yourself…” he whispered and got up from bed his ice blue suit freshly pressed and his veil -the only thing hiding the horrible appearance he had- was next to it on the desk. He put his suit on looking into his mirror as fixed the buttons he looked up catching a glimpse of his face and flinching “god…8 years and you, 're still a coward…” he whispered and put the veil over his face.

He still remembered what the king had said to him...That day...

The king’s eyes bore into him with an intensity that made Roman feel small and insignificant. “You survived when others did not,” said the king gravely. “You are alive for a reason.” But all Roman could see was a reflection of failure—a man unworthy of respect or leadership.

As soon as he turned 17, he was made the royal advisor, a position he felt all but worthy of for his failure to save anyone in the event of a tragedy. He continued to serve the king, not once leaving the castle walls for fear of what lay behind them. Eventually, the king passed away, leaving his son in charge and leaving him to teach the young prince how to run a kingdom at just the age of 23.

He stepped into the hall, commanding the respect he once cowered to. His heels clicked against the hard tile floor of the castle as he made his way to the general's office, a man just one position under him. He entered the room. “Sir, may I have the honor of questioning your previous strategy reports?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm while also being colder than any magic seen in the kingdom.

The general, a grizzled veteran with a face carved by years of battle and sleepless nights, glanced up from his desk, his quill pausing mid-sentence. A flash of irritation crossed his features, quickly masked by the thin veneer of professionalism. “Advisor Roman,” he said, his voice steady but edged, “I wasn’t aware my reports warranted such... scrutiny.”

The tension in the air thickened, the unspoken hierarchy between them teetering precariously. Roman stepped further into the room, his eyes glinting like shards of ice under the veil. “Warranted?” he echoed, his lips curling into a sharp smile. “General, I believe the kingdom deserves strategies as refined as its ambitions. And I, as its steward, have every right to ensure we are not marching toward failure.” he slams the papers on the desk looking at him with nothing but anger

The general stood, his broad shoulders blocking the faint light streaming through the high window behind him. For a moment, the room seemed smaller, the air crackling with the friction of clashing wills. “And do you believe your strategies would lead us elsewhere?” the general asked his tone a challenge veiled in curiosity. Roman tilted his head, his fingers trailing along the edge of the map-strewn desk.

“I believe,” he replied, his voice now a measured calm, “that ambition without precision is no different than folly disguised as courage. And I will not allow folly to shape the fate of this kingdom.” His words hung in the air, their weight undeniable. For the first time, the general’s expression wavered, a flicker of something resembling grudging respect passing through his steely gaze.

“Very well, Advisor,” the general said at last, his voice softer but still guarded. “If you think you can do better, the floor is yours.” He stepped aside, gesturing toward the maps sprawled across the table. Roman didn’t hesitate. He leaned over the table, his gloved hand tracing a route across the parchment. “Here,” he said, his tone sharp, “is where your strategy falters. You’ve underestimated the terrain and overestimated the strength of our forces. A direct assault here would leave our flank exposed. Instead...”

He swiftly redrew the lines, rerouting the army’s path. “A more subtle approach, utilizing the forest to the north, will ensure we maintain the element of surprise. Less risk, greater reward.”

The general studied the revised plan, his lips pressing into a thin line. Roman’s confidence was unshakable, his voice unwavering. Despite the veil concealing his scarred face, his presence was commanding, the mark of a man forged in tragedy and hardened by years of service. Finally, the general nodded, albeit reluctantly. “I see your point,” he admitted, his tone begrudging. “But this is uncharted territory. Are you certain the men can adapt?”

Roman straightened, his cold gaze meeting the general’s. “Men adapt to leadership they trust. Show them certainty, and they will follow.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was a command veiled in advice. The general hesitated for a moment longer before conceding with a curt nod. “Very well. We’ll try it your way.”

As Roman exited the office, his heels once again echoing against the castle’s polished floors, he felt the familiar weight of his veil brushing against his skin. The scar beneath it no longer burned as it once had, but its memory remained vivid. It was both a reminder of his survival and a curse he could never escape. He’d never forget the fire, the screams, the searing pain that had brought him to the edge of death. But he’d also never forget the king’s words: You are alive for a reason.

As he approached the grand hall, the echoes of his past grew fainter, replaced by the sound of courtiers whispering and soldiers standing at attention. At twenty-five, Roman had carved a place for himself in the kingdom, not through birthright or charm but through sheer determination and intellect. The young prince—now the king—trusted him implicitly, and while Roman still wrestled with feelings of inadequacy, he had learned to mask them with the icy confidence that had become his trademark.

The hall’s towering doors loomed ahead, their ornate carvings a testament to the kingdom’s legacy. Roman paused for a moment, steadying himself. The meeting he was about to attend would shape the kingdom’s future, and failure was not an option. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the doors open, stepping into the chamber where the young king awaited him.

The prince-turned-king stood at the head of the table, his youthful features sharp with determination but softened by inexperience. “Advisor Roman,” he said, his tone formal yet tinged with relief. “You’re just in time. We’re about to discuss the preparations for the northern campaign.” Roman inclined his head in acknowledgment, taking his place beside the king. The council’s eyes turned to him, their expressions a mix of skepticism and deference. Despite his veiled face, Roman’s reputation preceded him.

As the discussion began, Roman’s mind sharpened, each word and detail cataloged with precision. The northern campaign was critical, not only for the kingdom’s expansion but for solidifying the young king’s rule. Roman’s strategies would be tested once again, and though doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind, he silenced it with a singular thought: Failure is not an option.

The meeting stretched late into the evening, the room dimly lit by flickering candelabras. When it finally concluded, Roman lingered, reviewing the plans one last time. The young king approached him, his expression earnest. “Roman,” he said quietly, “I trust your judgment more than anyone’s. But tell me… do you believe we’re ready?”

Roman hesitated, the weight of the question settling heavily on his shoulders. He thought of the fire, the screams, the melted flesh that had shaped his life. He thought of the people who had died that day and the promise he had made to himself to never let such a failure happen again. Finally, he met the king’s gaze, his voice steady. “We will be ready,” he said firmly. “I will see to it myself.”

The king nodded, his confidence bolstered by Roman’s certainty. As the young monarch left the chamber, Roman remained behind, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his veiled face. He stared at the maps spread before him, his mind already working through contingencies and strategies. He would not fail. Not again. The scars beneath his veil were a testament to his past, but they would not define his future. Roman was alive for a reason, and he would ensure that reason was not in vain.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the corridor as the chamber doors swung open again. A soldier entered, his armor clinking softly as he saluted. “Advisor Roman, a messenger has arrived from the northern outposts. He insists the message is urgent.” Roman’s head snapped up, his focus sharpening. “Bring him in,” he commanded, his tone ice-cold.

Moments later, a young scout entered, his face pale and streaked with sweat. He knelt before Roman, holding out a sealed scroll. Roman took it, breaking the wax emblem with a swift motion. As his eyes scanned the parchment, his expression darkened. The report spoke of unusual activity—enemy forces moving faster and with more coordination than anticipated. It also mentioned something more troubling: strange sightings of magic-infused beasts, creatures that hadn’t been seen since the kingdom’s darkest days.

Roman rolled the scroll tightly, his jaw tightening beneath his veil. “Alert the general and the council,” he ordered the soldier. “We convene at first light.” The scout hesitated, his fear evident. “Do you… believe we’re ready, Advisor?”

Roman’s gaze bore into the young man, unwavering. “Readiness is irrelevant,” he said, his voice cutting through the air like steel. “We have no choice but to prevail.” As the soldier hurried away, Roman turned back to the maps, his mind already racing with strategies. The campaign had grown more complicated, but he would not falter. The kingdom’s survival depended on him—and this time, failure truly was not an option.

(VERY REAL FIRST CHAPTER WITH MORE THAN LIKE 500 WORDS BARE WITH ME!!!!!

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT IT TOOK SO LONG TO WRITE!!)