The wind, a relentless sculptor of ice and stone, tore at Signe’s fur-lined cloak, whipping tendrils of her dark hair across her face. Frostfang Hold loomed, a jagged scar against the bruised violet sky of late autumn, its ramparts swallowed by the permanent twilight of the northern mountains. It was less a dwelling and more a petrified titan, carved into the very maw of the Great Spine, each window a vacant eye socket staring out at the desolate land of Kirsikka. Only the crunch of the carriage wheels on the brittle ground broke the monumental silence, a sound that felt sacrilegious in this place of hushed stone and ancient sorrow. Signe clutched the small, earthenware pot in her hands, its contents a vibrant splash of defiance against the monochrome landscape. A Skjorr bloom, its petals a vivid crimson, its stem hardy and thick, cultivated in the fleeting warmth of her family's ancestral lands far to the south. A wedding gift, a symbol of life, brought to a place where life seemed to hold no purchase. “We are here, Lady Varis,” the coachman grunted, his voice swallowed by the wind. He didn’t meet her gaze, instead fixed on the enormous, iron-bound gates that seemed more fitted for a crypt than a home. Signe swallowed, the taste of apprehension sharp on her tongue. Not Lady Varis anymore, she reminded herself. Lady Vinter. The thought felt like a borrowed garment, ill-fitting and cold. Her sister, Rila, frail and pale, lay in her bedchamber miles away, her breath a fragile whisper against the inevitable. Only this marriage, this bargain with a legend, offered a chance at the rare, potent medicines that might stave off the wasting sickness. A desperate hope, forged in the crucible of love and terror. As the carriage stopped, the monumental gates groaned open, revealing a cavernous archway that led into absolute darkness. Signe stepped out, the bloom still cradled in her numb fingers, and walked towards the unknown. The air grew heavier, colder, laden with the scent of dust and something else, something metallic and faintly acrid, like old blood. Within the antechamber, the air was still, oppressive. Torches flickered, casting long, dancing shadows that made the ornate, but crumbling woven hangings on the walls seem to writhe. At the far end of the hall, a figure stood. Lord Valerik. Her husband. He was taller than she had imagined, lean and dark-haired, his silhouette stark against the distant light. He wore plain, somber clothing, devoid of the usual noble finery. His gaze, even from across the vast space, felt like a physical touch, though his presence radiated an unnerving stillness, a profound lack of movement, as if daring the air itself to stir around him. Signe walked towards him, her footsteps echoing unnaturally loud on the polished but scuffed stone. She held the Skjorr bloom out, a vibrant splash of color against the gloom, a gesture of peace and a silent plea for connection. “My lord,” she began, her voice a little unsteady, “I bring a gift. From our lands. A symbol of resilience.” He did not move, did not speak. Only his eyes, dark as polished obsidian, followed her. As she stepped nearer, a frost so acute it seemed to leech the marrow from her bones seeped from him. It wasn’t just the chill of the mountain; it was a deeper, more profound cold, a predatory emptiness. She reached a point where politeness dictated she offer the flower directly, extending her arm. He flinched, tightening his mouth in a fractional recoil. Then, his gaze dropped to the blossom. In less than a breath, the crimson petals curled inwards, shriveling as if scorched by an invisible flame. The vibrant red faded to a sickly grey, then to brittle black. The stem twisted, dried, and crumbled to ash, sifting between her fingers, leaving only a faint, bitter scent. It happened in a blink, a silent, horrifying confirmation of the legends. The Blight. The curse that withered all life it touched. Signe stared at her empty hands, then back at Valerik. His face was a mask of grief, his eyes shadowed with an ancient sorrow. “I apologize, Lady Varis,” he said, his voice a low, resonant baritone, laced with a melancholic weariness. “I forget, sometimes. The scope of it.” He gestured vaguely, encompassing the empty hall, the desolate Hold, and perhaps, himself. Before Signe could respond, a figure emerged from the shadows near a crumbling hearth. Old Helmi. Her face was a map of wrinkles, her eyes sharp and knowing. She wore a simple, dark smock, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun. “Welcome, Lady Vinter,” Helmi’s voice was raspy, dry as old parchment. “Come. I will show you to your chambers. The lord will join us for the evening meal, across the hall.” Helmi’s tour of Frostfang Hold was less an introduction and more a catalog of decay. The grand dining hall, large enough to seat a hundred, held a single, small table at one end, set for one. The rest of the vast space was draped in cobwebs, the long oak table warped and cracked. In the library, rows of books were swollen with damp, their bindings flaking. The grand ballroom, once surely a place of light and music, was now a tomb, a fallen chandelier a skeletal cage on the dusty floor. Everywhere, there were signs of what Valerik's curse had wrought, or what its lonely inhabitant had simply allowed to rot. “He touches nothing,” Helmi explained, her voice devoid of emotion as they walked through a once-opulent antechamber where potted, exotic plants had long since turned to dust, leaving only desiccated husks. “He eats food prepared days in advance, to ensure its death. And even then, he handles it only with implements, never his skin.” Signe’s gaze kept returning to Valerik, who observed from afar, sometimes from a balcony overlooking a hall, sometimes from a doorway, never allowing her to come close. She tried to bridge the chasm with words, calling out questions, offering observations. He answered, his voice always carrying across the vast, empty spaces between them, surprisingly clear despite the gap. “The weaves depict the first lords of the hold,” he’d explained from a gallery above the great hall, his voice a balm. “They forged this place from the mountain’s heart.” “It must have been magnificent once,” Signe had replied, her own voice feeling small in the cavernous space. “Why is it so... empty?” He hesitated. “Life struggles to thrive here, Lady Vinter. In more ways than one.” His words carried a grim sentence, a self-condemnation that resonated with the silence of the Hold. As dusk deepened into the endless Kirsikkan night, a restless energy seized Signe. She couldn't simply sit in her appointed chambers, a gilded cage within the larger one. She needed answers, a path to break this suffocating curse, for Valerik’s sake, and for Rila’s. Slipping past the discreetly watchful Helmi, Signe began her own exploration. Her steps led her deeper into the older wings of the Hold, where the air grew colder still, thick with the scent of aged paper and forgotten things. She found it tucked away behind a disused gallery of ancestral portraits, a heavy oak door, bound with iron bands and secured by a formidable lock. The library. Not the flaking, damp one Helmi had shown her, but one that radiated a different, potent energy. This one felt alive with secrets, a repository of knowledge. Her fingers traced the cold metal of the lock, her heart beating a little faster. This had to be it. The place where the bloodline's history, and perhaps the curse’s genesis, lay hidden. A faint click echoed from the shadows behind her. She turned, her lungs freezing. Valerik stood there, emerging from the gloom, his face unreadable in the dim light filtering from a distant window. He had moved without a sound, a silent wraith. His eyes, though, were piercing, filled with a raw intensity she hadn’t seen before. “Lady Vinter,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual melancholic softness. “This wing is forbidden.” “I seek… understanding, my lord,” Signe replied, her voice firm, refusing to cower. “About the curse. About a way to lift it.” He stepped closer, just a single, deliberate pace, and Signe instinctively recoiled, remembering the flower. The subtle shift in his demeanor, the hardened edge to his voice, pricked the nape of her neck like an ice blade. His gaze fixed on the locked door, then back to her, an unsettling grief warring with something fierce and protective in his eyes. “Do not seek what has destroyed my family. Leave this place, for your own sake.”

The Withered Groom