There was no stone, no secret furnace buried beneath the earth—but somehow the cold still crept in. It wasn't the kind that bit at your fingers; it seeped, quiet and watchful, into the walls and bones of the house. It was the kind of cold that made you whisper without knowing why, the kind that made you feel as if something was listening. As if the house itself was waiting for you to speak.
Viktor was letting people go. Not loudly. Not all at once. The footmen first. Then the maids. Then the cooks, the stable boys. They didn't quit. They were sent away in pairs, sometimes small wagons. Viktor called it "training up north," spoke of opportunities, of investments, of trades between powerful hands. Some had papers. Others? Just promises.
But every time a person left, something else arrived to replace them—a shadow that moved like memory and didn't speak unless spoken to. When a guest once asked, Viktor simply said he had hired ghosts to handle the housework now.
Only a few, like Sabine, who stayed until the very end, knew the truth: it was the Shadow Man's doing. And as much as she feared him, Sabine had to admit—he knew how to take care of his people.
In under a month, the once-lavish halls, where glass clinked and secrets clung like perfume, grew still. Sabine had been surprised by how willing Genevieve's father had been to help move the estate along—selling things, signing off, keeping the transitions quiet. She had assumed his fae nature would mirror his daughter's fire, but maybe it did—just colder, quieter.
The nights were getting colder too, though the frost hadn't truly come. Sabine spent her last days wondering how to leave without Ayoka. She thought about ignoring Viktor's final order, but her heart trembled and her mind was forced to obey. "Damn Sonsters did their job well," she muttered.
A shadow peeled itself from the wall behind her, stretching tall and thin before folding into the shape of a man. He was made of smoke and flicker, a walking silhouette that refused the rules of candlelight. The Shadow Man.
"I know," he said, voice like velvet dragged through ash. "I used to work for them. Sister needed help."
Sabine turned, arms halfway into her coat. She blinked at him, unnerved—not because he appeared, but because he spoke with a familiarity that cut through her resolve. Without a word, he moved beside her and began folding one of her shawls with long, careful fingers made of night.
"For what it's worth," he said, reaching for a small lacquered box in the corner of the trunk, "you made a fair hand at advisin' Master Viktor. Well—so far as a too-prim, too-polished sort might." He lifted the lid, revealing the sewing kit Viktor had once gifted her—lined in emerald velvet, its gold-trimmed scissors gleaming like the last proper thing left in the room.
Sabine gave a sharp breath through her nose, tugging her collar close. "Better a stout pair o' laced shoes than a moldy pair o' boots full of hauntings, I say."
But even as she said it, she lifted her hand and began drawing sigils into the air, her fingers glowing faintly as the magic caught. A mirror across the room rippled like disturbed water, and from its depths stepped a golem, silent and steady. The creature began helping her pack with practiced care.
Sabine's lamp glowed steady in her room, but outside in the bitter hush of the night, Ayoka saw nothing—only the shadow of the manor. And yet, Sabine could swear the girl was looking straight at her window, like some thread between them still held firm, pulled tight across distance and silence. Ayoka stood in the garden with Malik in her arms—or rather, in her shadow's arms, that eerie thing curved protectively around the child.
This was the night they had chosen—no ceremony, no final words. Just glances through frosted glass. Sabine had once joked that the only way to tell the first true frost was to see it clinging to the inside of the windowpanes. Well, tonight, she reckoned it might finally snow. Fitting, wasn't it?
She let out a shaky breath, the air in her chest thick as syrup. Bittersweet didn't cover the half of it. For just a moment, Ayoka looked up—her eyes met Sabine's through the frostbitten pane. Then, as if it never happened, she turned away. A glance so fleeting, Sabine wondered if she'd imagined it. But no—she had seen her. And it nearly undid her.
"Relax," murmured the Shadow Man beside her, voice like coal smoldering. "She thinks your light's gone out."
Sabine exhaled hard through her nose, then muttered, "Why're you helpin' me?"
He tilted his head with a grin that never reached his eyes. "Oh, I ain't helpin'. I'm just makin' sure you hold your end of the bargain. Hate for you to face the proper consequences, that's all. 'Sides—" he gestured lazily to the window, "I do love an ending like this. Not the grand ones. The small ones. The quiet ones. The ones that leave a scratch under the ribs. You leavin' your girl out there like this—makes you quite the bad friend."
"She's not my friend like that," Sabine said softly. "She's my sister."
The Shadow Man gave a short, amused snort. "What family you are."
Then, just like that, he vanished into the dark edges of the room.
Sabine began lighting candles, one by one, her fingers trembling as the flames flickered to life. This would be the last time. Once she stepped through that mirror, she wouldn't return. As each wick caught fire, she thought of the laughter, the arguments, the broken teacups, the songs hummed low in the kitchen. All the living that had happened here.
Then, louder than needed, her voice cracked the quiet.
She didn't care if the Shadow Man was still lurking in the corners—she wanted him to hear. Her voice sliced through the candle-lit hush, heavy with finality and grief: "Al fè silans lan, mwen mèt di ou ale nan lanfè. Pa gen pyès drama w'ap jwenn jodi a, shadow bitch."
(Fuck your silence in this house. If I ain't gonna face her proper, then I'm leavin' loud. You ain't getting your tidy little drama today, shadow bitch.)
Outside, Ayoka stood still in the snow, waiting, watching Sabine's window. Doubt began to gnaw at her. Was Sabine truly going to leave her out here? After everything?
She had no reason to think so—Sabine had never once given her cause to doubt. But tonight felt different. Malik was bundled in her arms, her shadow curled tight to keep him warm, but Ayoka's thoughts turned cold even faster than her fingers. Her body—her body couldn't take much more of this.
Snow began to fall. When the wind picked up, it rattled Sabine's window and blew it wide. On the sill sat a candle—tall, dark blue, shaped like a waterfall. As Ayoka stepped closer, the flame flared suddenly, and the serpent carved into the wax stirred to life—its glowing shape unfurling from the candle and wrapping itself in one graceful coil around the frame of the house. Then, with a sudden rush, it shot upward into the sky, trailing shimmer and smoke behind it. Just before it vanished into the snowfall, the word "Libète" burned in the air—freedom, spoken in the old tongue. Ayoka stood frozen, breath caught in her throat.
She dropped to her knees in the snow and began to cry, commanding her shadow to take Malik inside.
That was the sign.
Sabine was gone.
Ayoka's breath hitched. Her hands clenched in the snow. Her grief boiled over into panic.
"This is my fault," she whispered, over and over. "It's my sign. My curse."
Her voice cracked. Her form shifted violently. Scales shimmered across her skin, dark and glassy as oil. Her body lengthened, widened. Limbs pulled in. Bones broke and reformed. She became a massive serpent, coils dragging across the snow, shedding long ribbons of skin that tore and hung like silk in the frost.
But even in this form—especially in this form—her body couldn't bear the cold. The shifting took everything she had left. Her breathing slowed. Her coils loosened. Her head drooped, and the great serpent's eyes slid shut.
She fell into a deep, unnatural sleep.
Viktor burst through the door with a heavy cloak, only to stop short at the sight of her. His boots crunched in the snow as he ran to her side, calling her name, trying everything he could to wake her.
Nothing worked.
From behind him, the Shadow Man's voice stirred low and dry. "I suppose the final stages are ready now. Come, Viktor. Gather your family. You don't want to be here when those soldiers arrive."
Viktor turned just in time to see movement beyond the trees—torches, the clatter of boots.
A line of soldiers approached the manor.
The Shadow Man opened a portal with a wave of his hand, light spilling from the crack in space.
They stepped through.
And were gone, into a quiet little town far from the cold and the war.