The winter season had firmly gripped the capital city of Mor, transforming the usually bustling river into a mirror-like surface reflecting the pale sky. The landscape around the river had turned into a vast, frozen expanse: the bare trees, their branches laden with icicles, stood like skeletal sentinels against the bleak horizon. The plain stretching east of the Tempelune mountain range, visible in the distance, was buried under an untouched blanket of snow, occasionally interrupted by the gray smoke from the chimneys of nearby villages. Above, a timid sun pierced the low clouds, casting a cold, diffused light that seemed to hesitate to warm the earth.

  Sven and Dorian, two of Mero's companions at the Imperial School of Mor, ventured onto the frozen river with youthful recklessness. Their ice skates, metal blades fixed to their boots, traced irregular patterns on the icy surface, leaving ephemeral scratches behind them. Their laughter echoed in the crisp air, carried by a biting wind that raised fine, powdery snow in delicate whirls. Caught up in a friendly rivalry, the two boys seemed determined to prove their superiority.

  "Watch out, Dorian, you're not keeping your balance!" Sven exclaimed, executing a sharp turn with confident assurance, his blond hair escaping from his woolen cap.

  "Wait and see!" Dorian retorted, accelerating in a daring burst of speed, his eyes gleaming with defiance.

  Mero, cautiously positioned on the frozen riverbank, observed their antics with a discreet smile. He had never skated in his childhood—the beaches of Sel, with their turquoise waves and scorching sun, offered neither ice nor the opportunity to learn—and preferred to remain a spectator rather than risk an embarrassing fall. The frozen river, bordered by snow-covered banks where dry reeds stood like frozen sentinels, reflected the pale sunlight in a nearly awe-inspiring spectacle. This natural mirror illuminated the silhouettes of the skaters, while the wind carried the scent of smoldering wood from nearby fires, blending with the crisp air. Some students from the school joined the scene: a few novices attempted to glide with hesitant gestures, their arms flailing to maintain balance, while others, wrapped in woolen cloaks and thick scarves, contented themselves with watching, their breaths forming small clouds in the frosty air.

  Suddenly, Sven, carried away by his momentum, attempted a theatrical pose. He lifted one leg in a dramatic gesture, intending to impress, but lost his balance and crashed heavily onto the ice with a resounding thud. A burst of laughter erupted, echoing off the riverbanks. Dorian, triumphant, paused his skating, his hands on his hips in a victorious stance, a broad grin on his face.

  "That doesn't count!" Sven groaned, rubbing his bruised flank, a pained smile playing on his lips despite his feigned nonchalance.

  "Of course it does!" Dorian retorted, his voice filled with jubilant triumph, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

  Their banter continued, their laughter filling the air, blending with the crackling of the ice and the distant murmurs of the other students. Mero watched them, a faint smile on his lips, momentarily distracted from his thoughts. But a subtle sensation interrupted his reverie. A presence manifested behind him, a soft crunch of snow under cautious steps. Turning around, he discovered a member of the school's staff, bundled in a gray woolen cloak, his face reddened by the cold. The man advanced with measured steps, holding a message in his outstretched hands.

  "A message for you, Your Highness," he announced with polite deference, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf covering his mouth. "It comes from the secretary's office."

  Intrigued, Mero seized the letter, quickly breaking the wax seal, his fingers struggling against the stiffness of the paper in the cold. The words, written in elegant script, informed him that the director of the Imperial School wished to meet him the following morning. Such a direct summons was unusual—students were rarely called personally by such a high figure—and this news sparked a mix of curiosity and apprehension within him.

  For the rest of the day, Mero couldn't help but ponder this enigma. Seated on a wooden bench near the river, he watched the sun decline behind the snowy peaks of the Tempelune mountain range, its rays piercing the low clouds, painting the landscape in long, blue shadows. The light faded, leaving the cold to intensify, biting at his cheeks despite the scarf he had wrapped around his neck. He speculated about the reasons for the summons—a reprimand for a forgotten fault? A mission related to his status as the prince of Sel?—but none seemed convincing. To chase away these thoughts and enjoy the company of his friends, he proposed an idea that had been germinating in his mind for a while.

  "What if we go eat a raclette tonight? There's a new tavern opening not far from here, near the artists' quarter. They're said to serve a mountain dish with melted cheese."

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  Sven and Dorian welcomed the suggestion with immediate enthusiasm, their faces lighting up at the idea of a warm meal after the chilly day. But each saw an opportunity to add a personal touch.

  "It would be impolite not to invite my sister, éléanor," Dorian declared with a sly glance at Sven, as if testing his reaction.

  "And Princess Ki deserves a place among us, doesn't she? A royal invitation should be quite prestigious," Sven added, casting a playfully innocent look at Mero, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

  Mero looked up at the sky, amused by their maneuvers. He knew that refusing would only fuel their determination, so he conceded with a resigned shrug. A few hours later, they all found themselves in the tavern, a cozy refuge nestled on the banks of the frozen river, at the edge of the artists' quarter of Mor.

  The establishment, built of rough stone and dark wood, exuded a rustic charm. Its facade, adorned with frost-covered windows, let in a golden light that contrasted with the exterior gloom. Inside, a large fireplace occupied the center, its flames dancing vigorously and casting flickering shadows on the tapestry-covered walls. Massive wooden tables, worn by time, stood near the windows, offering a breathtaking view of the shimmering river under the nascent moonlight. Lanterns suspended from the ceiling diffused a soft glow, while the aroma of melted cheese and grilled meats filled the air with a tantalizing promise. This cozy atmosphere, new to Mero, comforted him, momentarily chasing away the chill of the outdoors and the lingering enigma of the director's summons.

  éléanor, Dorian's sister, engaged in lively conversation, her energetic presence animating the table like a lively fire. Beside her, Princess Ki, more reserved, observed the scene with curious discretion, her delicate fingers grazing the edge of the table with an almost unconscious elegance. When the dishes were served—steaming potatoes covered in melted cheese, accompanied by slices of cured meat—Ki hesitantly tasted the unfamiliar fare, her eyes widening with fascination.

  "This is the first time I've ever eaten something like this," she remarked, her gaze fixed on the dish with a mix of wonder and caution.

  Sven, already armed with his fork, let out a small laugh. "There's a first time for everything! Look, you take the melted cheese like this..." he explained, demonstrating with exaggerated gestures that made his companions smile.

  The dinner unfolded in a warm ambiance. Conversations meandered from courses at the imperial school to tales of their respective kingdoms' culinary traditions—grilled fish from Sel for Mero, spicy stews from Fine for Dorian, and roasted meats from Fer for Sven. Despite the warmth of the tavern and the camaraderie, a persistent thought lingered in Mero's mind: why did the director want to see him? This question hovered like a faint shadow, lurking behind the laughter and the clinking of glasses.

  While savoring a bite of melted cheese, its rich texture contrasting with the crisp air outside, Mero cast a playful glance at his friends, determined to distract himself from the enigma. With a smirk, he leaned slightly towards Dorian.

  "So, Dorian, you who said the princesses of the North were too rigid, has Ki changed your mind?"

  Dorian, caught off guard, blushed deeply, his face turning a shade of rose under the heat of the fire and the weight of the teasing. éléanor let out a melodious laugh, her eyes sparkling with amusement, while Ki arched an eyebrow, her voice soft but laced with irony.

  "Oh, really?" she replied, her tone gentle yet firm. "Is that how you see us, Dorian?"

  "Wait, that's not what I meant!" he protested, his voice faltering under the mix of embarrassment and the warmth radiating from the hearth.

  Sven, seizing the opportunity, chimed in with a mischievous grin. "And you, éléanor, my dear escort, what impression has our friend Mero made on you? He's been watching us all evening with a suspicious intensity... Perhaps he feels lonely without his Mandarine?"

  éléanor, playing along with a mischievous smile, tilted her head thoughtfully. "Oh, perhaps he does. It's sad, a ball without an escort. But you, Sven, you seem to be enjoying the situation quite a bit."

  Mero looked up at the ceiling, feigning exasperation to mask his amusement. "I remind you that Mandarine was supposed to come!" he retorted, attempting to regain control of the conversation.

  But his friends were not about to let him off so easily. Ki, with her subtle discretion, interjected, "True, but she didn't come... And you didn't seem too unhappy dancing with Victoria at the last ball," she remarked, a playful glint in her eyes.

  Mero furrowed his brows, crossing his arms defensively. "I simply did what was necessary, nothing more."

  "Of course, of course..." Sven chimed in, his tone exaggeratedly suspicious, eliciting a small laugh from Dorian, who finally regained his composure.

  The atmosphere grew even more lively. Even the princesses, usually more reserved, joined in the teasing. Ki, with her subtle wit, turned to éléanor with a playful smile. "In any case, Ki, if Dorian finds the princesses of the North too rigid, I suppose I should show myself to be more challenging with him, then."

  "Hmm, interesting," Ki murmured, feigning deep reflection, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Perhaps I should be more demanding with him, then."

  Dorian, defeated, hid his face in his hands, mumbling something incomprehensible, provoking a burst of laughter that resonated throughout the tavern. The clinking of glasses and the crackling of the fire blended with the merriment, creating a warm and joyful ambiance that momentarily chased away the lingering questions in Mero's mind.

  But despite the festive atmosphere, a part of his mind remained anchored to the enigma: why had the director summoned him?