Lee Minho

That year, Russia didn't just lose its tsar—it felt as if it had exhaled an icy breath and stood frozen, clenching its teeth. The snow lay thick, not melting even under hooves, and the wind howled like an animal scratching at the palace walls. There was no warmth here—not in the stone, not in the people, not in the sky.
Minho was born into this cold and became a part of it. They didn't spare him—they tempered him like steel, throwing him into the freezing cold, forcing him to stand there until he shivered, until his body lost all feeling. Tears meant nothing—they were burned away before they fell. He was taught to be not a son, but a weapon. And that's how he grew up—sharp, heavy, merciless.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a body sculpted from strength. His eyes were cold, blue, like cracked ice. His hair was white, as if the snow had taken human form. His skin blended with the winter, making him a ghost in the blizzard. His beauty didn't warm—it cut.
At nineteen, the Tsar died. Without words, without farewell—and for a moment, the country froze. But Russia doesn't cry. Russia clenches its fists.
And Minho sat on the throne.
Young, but already drenched in cold to the bone, an alpha whose gaze held no softness. The crown lay not like a decoration, but like a chain, accepted silently.
But even the frozen throne requires balance. To keep whispers from rising, it needed an omega—an alliance, a seal.
The silence in the room was oppressive. The advisor spoke in a trembling voice: "Perhaps... Japan? Your father had connections..."
Minho didn't turn his head. Just one look—and the decision was made, cold as a gunshot.
That same night.
He didn't need a choice. Just a result.
The emperor's son is Han Jisung.
The Emperor did not refuse. He could not.
All that was left was to wait.
The palace was silent, drowning in snow. Time dragged on like a freezing river. Minho stood by the window, gazing into the endless whiteness, devoid of color and life.