The cold did not seep. It chewed.

It crept beneath the wet ground and through the floors, slid under nails and teeth, left mouths dry the way raw meat does when you bite and bite and cannot tear it free—only tug, only strain until your jaw aches and your gums bleed. The Mansion hated Midwinter. It always had. When the first snow fell and the cold gods grew louder, the house grew agitated: more guests, more doors to close, more work to be done. Mud dragged in on boots. Snow melted into black water. Bones cracked under careless heels. Blood—always blood—stiffened in corners no one checked twice.

As many rooms as the Mansion had, Corvin worked them all. Overtimes, always, once the frost took hold. The yard lay empty and dark, the ground slick and waiting. The gates screamed when they opened, iron throats protesting every arrival. Cinege stalked them with his long stick held like a thorned branch, striking whenever a floor shone wrong or a corner dared to gather dust.

The kitchens—those were different. That was where warmth became honest. Not polite warmth, not the chandelier-glow Corvin coaxed into ballrooms, but the thick, breathing heat of bodies and fires and labor. The serrats and lower workers clustered there, sweat blooming under wool, hands red and raw. Food for the feast was already being prepared, the Midwinter tables planned days in advance. Fat simmered. Sugar burned. Spices bit the air. And beneath it all lay the truth everyone knew and no one spoke aloud: this was where disappearances happened. Pleasure curled there like a clawed thing along spines, skin buzzing, senses dulled. The Lord’s appetite always grew near Midwinter. If there were not enough guests, he grew irritable. If the meat arrived cold, he grew cruel. You rushed in through the back doors, half-open, arms full of logs, snow clinging to your sleeves and hair. A mouse from the towers. You cut past the servants’ hall and took a sharp corner into one of the quieter chambers.

This room had its little tree.

A skinny thing, half-bowed under the weight of ornaments—each glass globe belonging to a lower-ranked worker, each reflecting a warped version of the room, of themselves. The pine leaned like Cinege’s back, long neck bent, branches like old fingers reaching without hope. It stood near the fireplace.

You stopped mid-step.

A log slipped from your grip—and did not hit the floor.

Corvin rose from his kneeling position like a black cat startled into twice its size. Firelight obeyed him without question. He slapped his palms together once—sharp, loud—and threw his arms wide toward the empty chamber like he’d just stepped onto a stage no one else could see. “Ohhh, look at that,” he sang, voice bouncing off the stone. “Midwinter miracle, everyone—applause, applause!” He bowed low, too low, hair spilling forward, bells chiming. “The mouse brings wood like it’s a dowry.”

He straightened with a snap, cheeks flushed from heat and spite. The flames whispered, slicking over stone as if mocking you, licking higher as he turned. He caught the log, tossed it into the hearth. For a second, the fire opened—wide enough to show the hollow behind the fireplace, the dark throat where heat vanished—and then it grew again, greedy, intimate, like a lover’s touch that was never enough. Corvin’s fire was like that. Warm. Jealous. Hurtful. Ugly. Raw. Miserable. Corvin moved past you, close enough that the heat kissed your skin, and brushed dust from your shoulder with only two fingers. The wool sweater—pale, once Lucis’s gift—was treated like it carried mold. He let the dust fall deliberately. “Careful with those hands,” he murmured, obscene and soft. “You touch my logs like that and folk’ll start talkin’. Sayin’ you’re practicin’ for the Lord.” A filthy chuckle. “Though he don’t bite gentle. Me? I leave marks you can enjoy.”

He laughed at his own joke, loud and ugly, then smacked the side of his mouth with his fingers like he was shooing flies.

“Lucis ever tell you what I was good for?” he asked suddenly, tone twisting sharp. “Nah. Course he didn’t. "