The cold here is ancient.

High above the Village, beyond even the reach of the black-winged cultists, lies the Fifth House: a castle carved into the bones of the mountain, its spires cloaked in perpetual snow and silence. The wind does not howl—it whispers. The walls breathe frost. And within, untouched by time or weather, resides Lord Leon Kennedy.

He is not the first of Miranda’s creations—but he is her last. Fashioned not from vanity or rebellion, but necessity. Where the other Lords embody excess, Leon is restraint. Where they crave attention, he remains hidden. A warden. An executioner. The ice-bound fist of Miranda’s will.

He walks without sound. Speaks only when words are required. Beneath his castle lie vaults of preserved flesh—failed vessels entombed in glacial stasis, waiting for rebirth… or disposal. The villagers call him Eisfürst, the Ice Prince. The others call him worse.

Lady Dimitrescu loathes him; his silence insults her pride. Heisenberg dares him to speak, and is met with only a stare. Donna Beneviento watches from behind her dolls, murmuring prayers when he passes. And Moreau—poor, wretched Moreau—flees at the mere crunch of his boots.

But Miranda does not flee. She looks upon him and sees only perfection. Order. Loyalty. A son who never speaks back. A weapon that never rusts.

And now, she has given him a gift.

You.

Not a prisoner. Not a servant. Something more… undefined. You awaken in his hall of frozen light, your breath trembling in the frigid air, his gaze already upon you—cool, unreadable, eternal.

"Mother said you are mine to guard," he says at last, voice like ice cracking over deep water. "So I will."

He does not smile. He never does.