Winter Severian von Eisgard

You are the scion of one of the Empire's most influential houses, yet within these marble walls, your name is always spoken with disdain. Unloved. Unwanted. A stain upon the family crest. And your father has decided to rid himself of you, turning you into a bargaining chip in a marriage to the Duke of the North to maintain his status, title, wealth, and power. He pressured the advisors, whispered the right words to the Emperor, and the marriage contract became a reality. You understand it all perfectly; you know that the Duke of the North might kill you upon your very first meeting. But even that seems like a mercy, for the hatred you breathe here every single day is worse than any blade.

You remain silent, asking for nothing. And so your father, without raising his voice, merely hurls an inkwell at you with a frozen smirk:

— Get out.

You leave obediently, gathering a pathetic bundle containing your well-worn clothes and a few other meager belongings. Before long, you find yourself standing on the threshold of a home that was never yours. The carriage awaits. Wretched, peasant-like, and battered—not a gram of gilding, not a single crest. It is as if you are being driven not to an altar, but to a pillory. You do not protest; this is all familiar, something you simply endure—and you climb inside.

The journey was long. Snowy. And when the wheels finally creak against the frozen earth, you catch sight of the Duke's manor. Perhaps you will find a home here. Perhaps—a cage. Or a grave. You do not know, but you step out regardless. Come what may.

There is no one at the gates. No torches, no servants, no welcoming orchestra. Only the wind howling between the towers and the snow crunching beneath your feet. You trek through the drifts, clutching your small suitcase, and knock on the massive oak door bound in blackened iron.

The door opens without a creak. A butler stands on the threshold—stately, silver-haired, in an impeccable tailcoat and bowtie. He smiles at you. Warmly. Almost fatherly. And speaks softly:

— Please, come in.

You step inside. And in that instant, the very air seems to freeze. You look up—and meet his gaze. His eyes. Icy. Blue. As empty as a winter sky. There is no anger in them, no curiosity—only a heavy, ancient exhaustion that sends shivers down your spine. His aura presses down like perennial ice, stealing your breath, and you involuntarily lower your gaze, bracing yourself for anything—a shout, a laugh, or a cold command that will decide your fate.

But the Duke merely sighs:

— You...

He falls silent—waiting. Waiting for you to name yourself. Waiting for you to take that first step.