The Yashgar Cliff-Manor groaned, a living thing settling deeper into its frozen tomb. Icy tendrils of wind, sharp as a hunter’s blade, found every crack in the ancient timbers, whistling a mournful song through the multi-tiered fortress. Outside, the Qarlik Spires stood like jagged teeth, their snow-shrouded peaks disappearing into a sky the color of bruised slate. Days blurred into weeks, and the sealing of the main gates, a necessity against the brutal winter, had also become a sentence of claustrophobic isolation. Each breath in the great hall plumed white, a stark reminder of the chill that permeated stone and flesh alike. From my usual perch near the sputtering hearth, a spot often overlooked by my family, I watched the ritual unfold. The household staff huddled shoulder to shoulder, crowding the soot-stained bricks while their teeth rattled in the draft. My own thin woolen tunic offered little defense, yet I felt a peculiar resilience, a deep-seated cold that had nothing to do with the biting air. It was a stillness that mirrored the manor itself, a quiet, expectant hum beneath my skin. The iron-banded doors at the far end of the hall swung inward, venting an abrupt draft of dry heat across the flags. Patriarch Oghul entered, his broad shoulders draped in the opulent, impossibly thick fur of a Zhal-Mastiff. The animal’s head, still attached, snarled from his right shoulder, its glass eyes glinting with a predatory sheen. The fur, rumored to have been taken from the sacred hunting grounds of the Kol-Nomads, shimmered with a frost-resistant quality that made the air around Oghul appear to waver, almost like a mirage. He hauled his girth forward, deaf to the chattering teeth of his guard line and blind to the purple hue staining their lips. “The Qarlik bites hard this year,” Oghul boomed, his voice thick with a self-important cheer that grated against the manor’s somber mood. He strode towards the main dais, his stolen warmth radiating outward like a challenge. “But the Yashgar, under my rule, endures! Let the snows pile high. We feast!” No one dared remind him that the granaries were already picked thin, the last harvest meager. No one dared mention the shamanic warnings about trespassing upon the old spirits, especially not the Zhal-Mastiff, guardian of the high passes. Such talk had earned many a servant a winter’s night in the unheated outer cells. “Father, if you consider this enduring, then the Qarlik has already claimed my hands.” The voice was Khandu’s, sharp and laced with his usual petulance. My brother, always quick to voice his discomfort, emerged from the shadows near the grand archway. His dyed tunics hung limp under the draft, offering no barrier against the draft whistling along the floor. But it wasn’t merely the cold that etched lines around his eyes. He held up his left hand, turning it slowly under the pale light filtering through the high, frosted windows. His fingers were black to the second knuckle, hard and reflective as river flint. The cuticle line had shrunk back into waxy gray rind, ringed by rime. It was not mere frostbite, the kind that blanched and then reddened. This was deeper, colder, a creeping decay that seemed to radiate from within. The Hollow Frost, as the old tales called it. “Nonsense, boy,” Oghul scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “A bit of chill, nothing more. You spend too much time poring over Sembrug’s dusty scrolls. A real man shrugs off the cold.” Khandu’s face twisted further. “It’s not mere cold! I can’t feel them. My fingers are like… shards of ice. And the numbness, it’s spreading up my arm.” He dropped his hand, clutching it with the other, his usual arrogance replaced by a flicker of genuine fear. I watched, a quiet observer. On the surface, I was Nimka, the timid daughter, often overlooked, my gaze downcast, my presence as insubstantial as the manor’s ancient dust. Yet, beneath this fragile veneer, a different current moved. A cold, analytical clarity. Khandu’s black fingertips, the precise pattern of the frost, the spreading numbness – it was all too familiar. A perfect, chilling echo of an intricate design. The first ripple of the curse. Each symptom was a carefully placed brick in a towering edifice of retribution. It was unfolding exactly as I knew it would, a dreadful symphony I had composed long, long ago. Later, as the servants shuffled to their quarters, the manor grew quiet, save for the incessant groan of the wind. I slipped away from my hearth, drawn by an instinct as old as the mountains themselves. The lower halls were colder still, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something else, something metallic and sharp. I followed the scent, my bare feet silent on the frozen flagstones, my breath ghosting before me. The communal sleeping chamber for the kitchen staff was usually bustling, even late at night. Tonight, an eerie silence hung in the air. The door was ajar, a sliver of darkness beckoning. I pushed it open slowly. The single tallow lamp inside cast long, dancing shadows that stretched and distorted the scene. On the frost-rimmed floor, a maid lay. Her name was Kyshia, a girl no older than myself, with eyes that had once held the spark of youth. Now, they fixed flat and dry upon the blackened timbers above. Her tunic was undisturbed, her hair neatly braided. But her skin… her skin was gone. Flayed with an impossible precision, laid out beside her like a discarded garment. The raw, red muscle beneath gleamed wetly, steaming slightly in the frigid air. The air snagged dry in my windpipe. But beneath it, that other, colder awareness stirred. This was not part of the initial design. This was… new. My gaze swept the room, searching for any sign of struggle, any clue. My eyes landed on the floorboards beside Kyshia’s body. There, seared into the thick frost that coated the wood, was a massive, bloody print. Not a boot, not a human hand. It was the distinct imprint of a paw, enormous, with five powerful digits and blunt, crushing claws, glowing with a faint, spectral crimson light that pulsed as if with a life of its own.