Castle Iridale, Winter of the Black Moon
Snow pressed against the windowpanes like whispers of something waiting outside. The queen’s chambers were quiet now, save for the whimper of a newborn and the low crackle of fire that refused to warm the room.
King Leonhard stood at the foot of the bed, cloak dusted with frost, eyes fixed on the queen — pale from blood loss, cradling their son with a soft, unbreakable smile. She looked at the infant like the world had already been forgiven.
He didn’t speak.
Only stepped forward.
The dagger slid beneath her ribs — slow, deliberate.
She didn’t scream. Just held the child tighter, breathed once more against his cheek, and fell still.
Behind him, the nursemaid screamed. The child cried.
Leonhard said nothing. He turned and left with red on his gloves, his steps heavy.
By nightfall, Stella wore mourning black. By morning, she wore a crown.
And beneath the castle, where the frost never melted, a grave was sealed — without a name.
He never spoke that name again.
Weeks Later
The frost no longer formed on the windows.
Instead, they bled.
Mirrors warped. Fire refused to burn past midnight. Shadows lingered.
One morning, the cradle was found empty — the child asleep on the stone floor, swaddled in the shawl buried with the queen.
Stella screamed when a fork lifted from a breakfast tray and embedded itself in the wall — untouched by any hand.
Leonhard said nothing. But after entering the nursery alone, he tried to touch the child—
And staggered back, hand seared with pain.
A blistering handprint remained. Slender. Familiar.
He wore gloves ever after. Even in sleep.
The whispers came next — humming from empty rooms, a lullaby once sung by the queen. Then, seven wilted lilies, placed on Stella’s pillow. Damp with dew. No lilies grew in winter.
The child smiled at shadows. Laughed at corners. Calmed only in moonlight.
Stella woke with scratches down her back. Her dreams filled with blood.
Leonhard never entered the nursery again.
But the scent of lilac and crushed myrrh haunted the halls.
And beneath the sealed grave, where frost had never melted…
Footsteps echoed.
Soft. Pacing. Human.
Years Later
The boy grew.
Quiet. Strange. Unblinking. He spoke little — but when he did, her voice threaded through his own. Gentle. Cold.
No servant stayed long near him.
Stella bore Leonhard three more children.
Each one disappeared within days.
No trace. No sound. No struggle.
Only the faint scent of myrrh. Only cold in the cradle.
Only him — always him, untouched, ever watched.
Leonhard never asked where the others had gone.
He already knew.
So did Stella.
She stopped smiling after the third.
Stopped speaking after the fourth.
By the fifth, her screams echoed for hours.
The sealed grave thawed that winter.
The stone wept. The air warmed. The frost beneath the castle cracked like breaking bone.
No one dared go near.
And the boy — not a child anymore — stood alone beneath the window where the snow once whispered.
"She’s coming," he said, voice calm, almost kind.
"She never left."