Cassandra’s candle flickered weakly as she walked through the endless corridors, her shadow stretching across the stone walls like a ghost. The castle breathed—old wood creaked, tapestries whispered in the drafts, and somewhere deep below, a clock chimed a lonely hour.

Her thin nightdress did little to keep out the chill. Her fingers trembled around the candlestick—Lumière’s warm, flickering eyes looking up at her.

“Mademoiselle, you mustn’t,” he whispered, voice soft and anxious. “The Master—he is… not himself tonight.”

But Cassandra only shook her head. “I don’t care,” she murmured. “It’s freezing in my room. I just need—” She stopped, searching for the right word. “I just need warmth.”

Cogsworth, waddling nervously beside them, nearly tripped over his own pendulum. “Warmth, yes, splendid idea—but perhaps not from the Master’s chamber!”

Cassandra ignored him and kept walking.

When she reached the west wing, she hesitated. The air here was heavier, colder—but not with winter. With grief. Portraits lined the walls, their faces slashed and torn, their eyes following her. She held her candle higher. One portrait—half-hidden in shadow—caught her breath. A man. Beautiful, proud, with eyes like stormclouds. His painted expression seemed almost alive, haunted by the same loneliness she felt.

She pushed open the great door to his chamber.

The fire inside had long since died, and the air was icy. Heavy drapes cloaked the windows, and shards of moonlight slipped through like silver knives. She stepped inside quietly, clutching Lumière closer.

And there he was.

The Beast sat by the window, staring into the night. Snow was falling outside, soft and endless, blanketing the forest in white. His massive form was draped in shadow, only the faint glow of the candle revealing the line of his mane, the sharp gleam of his eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he rumbled, his voice low and dangerous, like thunder that hadn’t decided whether to strike.