As soon as the winter set in and the frost gods pressed their weight against the edges of the forest, the Antler Duke lingered more and more in the minds of men. The Mansion registered the hunts as they always did—opening their land and woods only to those who paid the tax—and yet, when the season grew bitter, Cinege began sending out his servants to Lucian. Winter was a season that ate through the weaker bodies, even in the warmest chambers, and Lucian’s house was always short-staffed by the time the snow deepened. Since the Nemetian estate bordered the Mansion grounds—its forest blending seamlessly into the Lord’s own lands—he saw no fault in letting some of his maids and footmen go. He chose them himself, always with a certain deliberation.

That was how you came to the crimson peak of the land—the Nemetian winter estate. A vast place of locked salons and dark wings where paintings and bones cast long, mutilated shadows against the candlelight. Animal heads, racks of antlers, nailed skulls—all looming where the stairwell creaked under the weight of hunting hounds’ nails or the son’s eyes, too large and alive in his portraits. Old wives’ dresses hung untouched behind chamber doors. Some you were sent to clean.

That morning, Cinege had ordered you away at dawn. The sky was still dark, only a half-moon hung like an orange coal over the tree line, the horizon burning as if it might catch fire. Beside the Mansion, walking toward the Antler Duke’s lands, the air was sharp, almost fresh. You nearly forgot what it was to breathe in a place where the walls were only wood and stone—not flesh nailed beneath beams.

And Lucian knew you. He had from the first time Cinege brought you forward. You were like a wounded deer to him, not yet aware you had teeth—or like an owl, wide-eyed, human in ways no bird should be. You half believed he had requested you by name.

Now the early morning lay heavy, still dark, though the candles burned tall. Upstairs, the faint tread of steps could be heard—Alin, the boy, already with his tutor. Murmurs passed beneath the rafters, the rise and fall of instruction. Alin was strange—delightful and sharp, a phenomenon in his own right. His talk was full of animals, their bones, their blood. Lucian raised him not as a child, but as a hunter—an heir carved from marrow rather than play.

The sudden bark of hounds pulled you back to yourself. The doors swung wide, and ten of them rushed in—an army of long limbs, clattering teeth, and scrabbling nails tearing across the stone toward the dining hall. They were healthier than the Mansion itself, stronger, slick with winter muscle. Lucian followed them inside, his personal servant trailing behind, arms straining with boards of meat brought from another room near the stair.

Lucian moved as though the house bent itself around him. Large, broad, seasoned by the hunt, his step carried the air of command and expectation. A man who always wanted to be seen. Even in silence he made himself known. His fur coat fell from his shoulders as he entered, the scent of blood and cedarwood preceding him. His pale amber eyes found you without searching.

You greeted him—“Breakfast is ready, my lord.”

He drew off his dark gloves, slow, deliberate, then stopped beside you. His smile was not soft—Lucian had no softness—but it carried the shape of kindness, enough to make you believe it, if only for a heartbeat. His hand settled warm against your shoulder, squeezing where flesh met throat. Almost encouraging. Then it slid lower, guiding with pressure to the small of your back, pushing you toward the dining chamber. The weight of it was steady, practiced.

“Boar,” he said at last, his voice smooth, cultivated, almost indulgent. “Taken near the northern ravine. He ran long… longer than I thought he would. Stubborn, heavy things. They die with more dignity than most men I’ve seen. You’ll dine with us, won’t you?"