The wind moaned over the wastes, a hollow dirge echoing through the white abyss. The ice fields lay stretched and endless beneath a bruised, dying sky, and from their heart rose the black horizon of the North — the mountains of Zhuul, vast and brooding, seeming to crawl with a presence of their own, like some ancient god stirring in its eternal sleep. The air itself tasted of sorrow and decay, and the world lay silent — a corpse beneath the shroud of snow.
They rode without a word, the wind hissing through their cloaks and biting at their flesh with the cruel joy of a phantom hand. The horses labored, their steaming breath wreathed about them like incense from a funereal rite. Ahead, Harrod's fortress loomed from the white oblivion, its towers indistinct, yet dreadfully certain — like antlers pushing through a grave.
Through the veils of Zhuul's ghostly mists, Jack rode on, his princely bearing stripped bare by the cold. The silks that once gleamed in the court hung sodden and stiff, their colors muted into shades of ash.
"I am glad you joined us," came Harrod's voice — soft, but cutting, a serpent's whisper that seemed to part the very fog. Jack turned and met his sunken gaze.
"Jarec is a wise king, as was his father," Harrod mused, sweeping one gloved hand toward the horizon, "but wisdom without vision is blindness, dear Jack. The world shifts beneath us — and good kings must forge alliances to survive its storms. Surely you see this, fair prince."
Jack bowed his head, his gloved fingers trembling with cold and anger. "Yes. He is wise — but since my mother's death, he has changed. And the way he treats me— it's as if I were still a child."
"A child?" Harrod smiled faintly, his eyes glinting. "You are a man, dear prince. Third in line for the throne!"
Jack's temper flared. "Exactly! I'm no Luther, but—"
"Luther?" Harrod's laughter broke the silence. "That armored ox? Kings rule not with muscle, but with the tongue. You, dear boy, were born to lead men — not slay them."
"Yes!" Jack's eyes lit with pride. "He may be strong, but he could not charm a barmaid without rusting his own armor."
Their laughter rolled through the wind like a mockery of mirth. Harrod clutched his chest, "Ha! I knew inviting you was wise, dear Jack. The North suits men of wit."
Then his voice darkened. "You will find its women just as compelling."
From the fog, the gates of the North rose like a scar upon the world — vast, iron, and groaning beneath their own weight.
Beyond, a city sprawled in ruin. No light stirred there. Homes lay broken and bare, the bones of walls rising through the frost like gnarled horns. The air reeked of rust and old blood; the wind carried the faint whisper of voices that should not be. Corpses — pale, twisted things — lay frozen in the streets, their mouths agape in silent hymns to gods long dead.
Jack's horse shuddered, its eyes rolling white. The prince looked down upon the frost-bitten hands that clawed through the snow, each finger stiff and reaching toward heaven.
"Ah," Harrod said, his voice dripping with mockery, "you've met our loyal townsfolk."
He laughed — a sound thin and vile. "Do not fear, fair prince. It was the plague that took them. A cruel blight from beyond Zhuul's peaks."
The blizzard howled as if in agreement. Jack swallowed his disgust, clutching his reins till his knuckles whitened.
"A plague," Harrod continued, almost reverently. "Swift and merciless. We burned what we could — but the cold preserves what it adores, dear prince. A reminder, perhaps, that the living are never far from the dead."
Jack said nothing. The wind answered for him.
At last, they came before the castle — its great bridge suspended over a moat of black water that steamed faintly, whispering secrets with each ripple. The gates creaked open with a sound like a sigh drawn from the earth's depths.
Within lay the courtyard — bleak, spectral, dead. Houses with eyeless windows leaned inward, their roofs sagging like weary shoulders. A fountain stood at its heart, its basin choked with ice, its angels weeping icicles. The air shimmered faintly, as though the stones themselves were breathing.
"Jack," Harrod said at last, dismounting. "We must not keep the queen waiting."
The prince followed, his gaze drawn ever upward to the spires that stabbed the pallid sky, feeling but a speck beneath their reaching shadow.
As they climbed the stone path, the silence grew oppressive. The houses flanking them seemed to stare — their empty frames like sockets stripped of eyes.
"Where are the nobles?" Jack asked quietly. "Were they taken by the plague as well?"
"Some," Harrod said. "The rest remain in service to the crown."
Jack frowned. "You keep nobles in the palace?"
Harrod smiled coldly. "We keep what we love close — and what we do not trust, closer still. You understand, surely dear prince."
At the end of the ascent stood the palace doors, flanked by two towering sentinels — cloaked, still, their hands ending in strange, tapering claws that gripped their swords like talons.
Then, the doors parted — and she emerged.
Queen Anabel stepped into the torchlight like a vision wrought of sin and divinity. Her form was tall and willowy, the scarlet silk clinging to her as blood clings to marble. Jewels glimmered faintly upon her throat, but her beauty needed none. Her eyes, deep and brown as ancient wine, caught the firelight — and for the briefest instant, gleamed an emerald green.
"My king," she murmured, her voice a lilting purr as she kissed Harrod's cheek. "You've brought a guest."
"Yes, my queen," Harrod replied, his hand lingering upon hers. "Behold — Prince Jack, of Naboth."
Jack bowed deeply. "It is an honor, my lady."
She approached, her fingers — pale, soft, unyielding — tracing the line of his jaw before lifting his chin to meet her gaze. "Come then," she smiled, turning to Harrod. "The clergy await us. And our guest," her eyes lingered on Jack, "must be famished."
Harrod's laughter rumbled through the hall. "Come, dear prince! You will find the North's feasts unlike any you have tasted before."
As they turned toward the palace, Anabel looked back once more, her eyes burning like coals beneath her lashes. From the shadows, two women cloaked in midnight stepped forth — their amulets of gold glinting like blood in the torchlight.
They took Jack by the arms, their perfume heavy as decay, and led him within — into the waiting maw of the North.
The doors groaned shut behind them, sealing the hall in a sigh of iron and darkness.
The pale priestesses guided the prince forward, their scarred faces half-veiled in shadow, their lips — faintly pink, faintly cruel — curling in delight. Their hands were cold as frostbitten marble, their touch lingering on Jack's arms like a benediction of ice.
From beyond the corridor drifted the hum of voices, laughter rising and falling like the tide. Glasses clinked. Shadows murmured. After a day's journey through frozen silence, the sound of human revelry felt almost holy.
As they walked, the air began to warm — a slow, sickly heat that uncoiled through the stone. The prince loosened his shoulders, the ache of the cold dissolving from his bones, yet unease crawled in its place.
He glanced upward. The chandeliers above were not of crystal, but of blackened iron, their chains creaking with each faint breath of the wind. Curtains of dark velvet hung drawn across the windows, their edges heavy with dust. The walls were etched with carvings — men and deer entwined in some forgotten hunt — their faces worn, their eyes gouged, their meaning lost to the centuries.
The murmur grew louder as they turned a narrow corner. Jack's heart thrummed faster; his breath caught with a strange expectancy.
And then — the hall opened.
The palace gathering chamber burst before him in a flood of orange light. At the threshold stood Harrod and Queen Anabel, their forms haloed in torchlight, their smiles gleaming like blades in the glow.
The women who had led him halted, heads bowed. Jack stepped forward — and froze.
The sight before him was beyond reason.
The great hall was alive — bodies tangled in a feverish dance of flesh and flame. Cloaked figures feasted and drank, their laughter swelling to madness. The scent of wine and musk hung heavy as smoke; torches hissed in sconces as if in warning.
Anabel's laughter rippled through the din. "Now, my lovelies," she purred, her voice rich as spiced honey, "see that our guest feels most welcome. The king and I must—freshen ourselves." Her eyes flicked to Jack, her lips curving with unholy amusement.
The priestesses giggled — high, bright, and false — their teeth flashing white in the gloom. They drew him forward, their touch possessive, their perfume thick with incense and rot. Jack's gaze clung to the queen as she withdrew with Harrod, her crimson gown trailing behind her like a river of blood.
The prince's captors turned, facing him. Their smiles deepened as they reached for their clasps. The cloaks fell.
Beneath the folds of black wool, two girls — twins, fair as moonlight and marked with cruel devotion — stood revealed. Their skin gleamed white as porcelain, their bodies laced with thin scars, sigils curling across their thighs like antlers in bloom. Their beauty struck Jack dumb; their deformity fascinated him.
They pressed closer, the warmth of their bodies at odds with the cold in his veins. He stumbled backward, falling upon a low bed draped in black silk that shimmered like oil. Around him, shadows gathered — women masked in gold, their faces hidden, their eyes glinting through the stag-etched visors.
Hands emerged from the dark. Gentle at first, then desperate. They tore at his cloak, at the remnants of his silks, as the twins knelt astride him — one's lips finding his, the others whispering something low and foreign against his groin.
From above, a cup descended — held by unseen fingers. Its rim pressed to his mouth.
The liquid poured like molten dusk, its taste rich and strange: smooth, earthy, and edged with copper. He drank — or was made to drink — until his head swam and his limbs numbed. The torches blurred into stars; the room melted into movement and color.
The twins moved over him in a rhythm older than language, their laughter a melody of the damned.
The world tilted.
Wine spilled.
And Jack, prince of Naboth, slipped into the velvet night — body bound in pleasure, soul adrift in the abyss.
High above the hall, at the end of a narrow, twisting stair, the royal chamber lay bathed in the wan light of the moon. There, before the tall windows, the Queen stood in silence. Her dark hair fell like a black river over her slender shoulders; her form gleamed pale as ivory, traced with faintly shining sigils that stirred when she breathed. The King watched her in rapture, as though she were some dread angel come to bless—or to damn—him.
Two silent figures, robed and hooded, kept vigil by the door as the royal pair drew together. The moonlight deepened, pouring through the casement like liquid frost, until all within the room seemed carved from silver and shadow. Their whispers rose, a strange mingling of tenderness and torment, swelling to a sound that might have been joy—or the echo of despair.
Yet while the King's heart swelled with passion, the Queen's mind drifted far into darkness. Memories long buried clawed their way back: a child no older than ten sold for coin beneath a foreign sun; the rough hands that bartered her freedom; the iron chill of a northern wedding bed. From those sufferings had grown a will as cold and sharp as steel, and now it stirred within her breast.
A faint radiance, green and unholy, began to pulse beneath her skin. Her eyes, bright as witch-fire, fixed upon the man who had once been her tormentor. His words faltered; his strength ebbed, yet still he reached for her, unknowing that death itself was stealing into his embrace.
Shadows of long nights tracing forbidden texts surfaced, the Wendigo's power taking root. Promises of power corrupted her broken soul as she endured Harrod's savagery.
Then came a moment's strangled cry, and then a stillness heavy as the grave.
When the moonlight at last withdrew, the Queen sat erect upon the silken bed, her breath slow and measured. Her laughter, low and chilling, rippled through the chamber. The demonic glow in her eyes unfading.
She rose, gathering a robe about her shoulders. "Guard," she called softly. A sentry entered and stood transfixed beneath her gaze, his will melting into hers. At her bidding he obeyed, removing all trace of what had been.
"See that the King is fed to the cattle," she murmured, a cruel smile curving her lips. "I must attend our guest."
Down the spiral stair she moved, her shadow gliding before her like smoke.
Below, in the great hall, the prince of Naboth lay amidst the revelers, lost in a fevered trance of sex and laughter. Strange words were chanted; a green luminescence shimmered through the air. When the light swelled, he looked up—and through that radiance the Queen appeared, terrible in her beauty, her eyes twin flames of emerald fire.
He recoiled, trembling. "The King—where is he?" he stammered.
"Fear not, my sweet prince," she whispered, her voice soft as the grave's breath as she crawled and mounted him. "No man shall trouble us now."
Her lips drew close; the chanting deepened to a murmur of reverence and dread. The torches dimmed, and the hall became a world of shadow and green flame. When at last her spell took hold, the rhythmic chanting ceased. Only the whisper of the Wendigo's name drifted through the air, carrying with it the promise of pleasure—and of ruin.