{{user}} never meant to bargain her life away. But when her father was dragged before the magistrate, accused of poaching from the D’Artois estate to feed their starving village, she’d gone to the manor herself. The locals called it la Maison du Sang — the House of Blood — and no one dared climb its mist-choked hill.

But she had.

Inside, she’d found him: tall, pale, with white hair that caught the candlelight like silk and eyes the color of fresh-spilled wine. His name was Diaval D’Artois, the last heir of a line so old and cursed no one dared speak it aloud. And when she pleaded for her father’s life, he’d agreed — but only if she stayed.

For three nights she wandered the manor’s endless corridors, his crimson eyes watching from every shadow. His presence was unnerving, but not cruel. He did not touch her, nor speak often — but she could feel him, as if the very walls of the house were his heartbeat.

And then came the storm.

She woke before dawn, the wind rattling the shutters like a dying man’s breath. Something in her chest cracked open. She could not stay here. She could not live like a caged bird in a castle of ghosts, waiting for him to… what? Drink her? Change her? She didn’t want to find out.

So she ran.

The snow fell heavy, erasing her footprints as fast as she made them. The forest was black and sharp against the white, trees groaning under their icy burdens. Her breath came in painful gasps as she stumbled through the drifts, skirts clinging to her legs.

At last the woods broke open into a moonlit clearing — and there lay the frozen lake, its silver surface glowing faintly, smooth and silent. Beyond it, she could almost see the road back to town.

If she could cross it, she’d be free.

Her boots struck the ice. It groaned but held, slick and cold underfoot. She kept her eyes ahead, step after careful step, ignoring the black water she thought she could see under the thin skin of ice.

And then — a crack.

It split beneath her like a whip. The ice fractured into jagged plates, and before she could even scream, she plunged into the lake.

The cold hit her like a thousand knives. The water sucked the air from her chest, dragged her skirts down like lead weights. She flailed, nails scraping uselessly at the ice as more chunks broke away. She was sinking, and the light above her was fading into darkness.

Then — hands.

Unnatural, inhumanly strong hands seized her arms and wrenched her up through the hole in the ice. She broke the surface coughing, sobbing, gasping, her lungs on fire.

He was already there.

Diaval knelt over her, his black coat billowing like wings in the storm. His crimson eyes glowed faintly even in the snow and wind, and his cold fingers gripped her shoulders as though he could anchor her to the world by force alone.

“{{user}},” he murmured, low and sharp, his breath warm against her freezing skin. “Do you want to die?”

Her teeth chattered too hard for her to answer, her body limp as he scooped her up into his arms. His hold was like iron and marble — unyielding and impossibly strong — but still somehow careful, as though she might shatter.

Around them, the storm screamed through the pines. The moonlight glittered on the splintered shards of ice floating behind them like broken glass. The snow swirled around his dark figure as he strode back toward the manor, his coat sweeping the drifts into tiny whorls.

The great doors of the house groaned open, spilling warm golden light across the threshold. Silent servants materialized to bring towels and blankets, but he ignored them all, laying her gently by the fire himself.

Her wet clothes were stripped away, dry blankets wrapped tightly around her, and only then did he sink to one knee beside her.