Chapter Three-Hundred Three: The Icy Nursery

Chapter 303

The Icy Nursery

July 30th, 1964

The late-July afternoon air was thick and suffocating, the kind of summer heat that settled over the estate grounds like a damp wool blanket. Inside the cool, dim library of the Beaumont manor, twenty-year-old Narcisse sat behind a polished mahogany desk, nursing a cup of black tea long since gone lukewarm. Even in the dead of summer, his posture was immaculate, collar pressed sharply beneath his throat, though the faint rings beneath his eyes betrayed the tension that had gripped the household for the past week.

A measured, urgent knock rattled the library doors before Armand stepped in. The butler did not show panic, but his breath was shallow, and his brow glistened with an uncharacteristic sheen of sweat.

Armand: “Monsieur Beaumont.”

He said, keeping his voice strictly level, though the words tumbled out faster than usual.

Armand: “Forgive the intrusion. It is your sister.”

Narcisse set his teacup down into its porcelain saucer with a crisp clink.

Narcisse: “Has she refused to eat again?”

Armand: “No, Monsieur. She has left the manor. She is down at the lower lake.”

He paused, his jaw tightening slightly before delivering the rest with rigid propriety.

Armand: “She has discarded her garments upon the reeds. She is standing in the water... entirely unclothed, staring into the far bank. She does not respond when called.”

Narcisse rose instantly, his chair scraping harshly against the parquet floor.

Narcisse: “Where is Victor?”

Armand: “Upstairs in the nursery with the infant, Monsieur.”

Narcisse: “Keep him there. Do not let him look out the southern windows.”

He commanded, already striding toward the terrace doors.

Narcisse: “Bring two wool cloaks and meet me at the shoreline. Now.”

The heat hit Narcisse like a physical blow the moment he stepped outside. He cut across the manicured lawns, down the sloping stone steps that led toward the private willow-ringed lake at the estate’s southern edge.

The lake was utterly still, glassy and dark beneath the bleached summer sky.

There, waist-deep in the murky green shallows, stood Charlotte.

Just seven days had passed since she had brought Tristan into the world, and her silhouette looked fragile, almost ghostly against the dark water. Her long white hair hung damp and loose over her pale shoulders, sticking to her skin. Her clothes—a white linen gown and soft slippers—lay abandoned in a careless, soaked heap among the cattails on the bank.

She wasn’t swimming. She wasn’t bathing. She stood ramrod straight, water lapping at her waist, her hands submerged at her sides. Her head was tilted upward toward the empty line of pine trees across the water, her eyes wide, unblinking, and vacant.

Narcisse: “Charlotte!”

He called, his voice sharp with authority, though an undercurrent of genuine alarm chipped at its edges.

She did not flinch. She did not turn. A dragonfly hovered an inch from her bare shoulder, buzzing softly before darting away.

Narcisse reached the water’s edge, the damp mud sucking at the soles of his shoes. He cared nothing for his footwear now.

Narcisse: “Charlotte, look at me.”

Nothing. The vacant, distant stare remained fixed on the horizon, as if her mind were adrift miles away from the flesh and blood standing in the lake.

Footsteps crunched heavily in the brush behind him. Armand arrived, breathless, carrying heavy wool wraps over both arms. Without hesitation, Narcisse stepped off the muddy bank and into the water.

The lake’s shock rose through his trousers, cold and thick around his knees, then his thighs. He waded toward her, the water resisting every step until he stood just inches away.

Up close, the chill radiating from her was unnatural. Despite the sweltering July humidity, goosebumps peppered her arms, and her lips carried the faintest shade of lavender. Her breathing was so shallow her ribs barely moved.

Narcisse: “Charlotte…”

He whispered, his voice dropping from commander to brother. He gently placed his hand on her bare shoulder.

Her skin felt like river ice.

At his touch, a tremor ran down her spine. Her pupils, huge and dilated, slowly slid sideways to meet his through the water's glare. For a second, they held no recognition—only deep, hollow exhaustion, a vast silence too heavy for her twenty-four-year-old frame to bear.

Narcisse: “Charlotte.”

He said again, softer this time.

Narcisse: “It’s Narcisse. You need to come out.”

Her dry lips parted with a faint click.

Charlotte: “It’s so loud in the house…”

She murmured, her voice barely louder than the rustle of the reeds.

Charlotte: “The walls… I did what Papa wanted…”

Narcisse: “The manor is quiet. Tristan is asleep.”

At the mention of the child’s name, Charlotte’s gaze flickered, a sudden, piercing ripple of awareness breaking the trance. She looked down at the dark water swirling around her hips, then at her own bare arms, as if only just realizing where she was and what she had done. A sharp, ragged breath hitched in her throat, and she shrank inward, crossing her arms tightly over her chest.

Charlotte: “Narcisse…”

She choked out, shivering violently now as the reality of the open air came crashing back.

Narcisse: “I have you.”

He took one of the heavy wool blankets Armand extended from the shore, unfurling it wide to shield her from view before wrapping it snugly around her shoulders and pinning it closed across her chest. Supporting her weight with one arm around her waist, he guided her numb, stiff legs through the shallows.

Narcisse: “Step carefully. The mud is deep.”

Armand stepped into the edge of the reeds to take her other side, draping the second cloak around her trembling frame as they hoisted her onto the grassy bank. She sank to her knees among the clover, clutching the thick wool against her neck, her white hair dripping onto the dirt.

From up the hill, the gravel pathway crunched.

Victor hurried down the slope, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, eyes wild with worry behind his glasses. He had clearly disregarded Armand’s instructions the second he noticed the commotion from an upper balcony.

Victor: “Charlotte!”

He shouted, sliding the last few yards down the grassy embankment until he dropped to his knees beside her. His face was pale, his eyes darting between the soaked pile of linen on the reeds and the bundle of blankets shivering on the grass.

Victor: “My God… What happened? Charlotte, look at me—are you hurt?”

Charlotte pulled the cloak tighter, ducking her face into the damp wool, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze.

Narcisse: “Why are you focused on her, Victor? What about me?”

He said sharply, his voice dripping with icy venom as he stood over them, soaked from the waist down, his spectacles slightly fogged from the humid heat. Victor stepped back, embracing himself.

Victor: “I heard a noise—Armand said she was resting—”

Narcisse: “She brought your son into the world. She needs solitude.”

Victor’s jaw tightened, but looking at Charlotte huddled small and shaking in the dirt, the fight drained out of him. He held his hands up in a placating gesture, genuine guilt and terror lingering in his eyes.

Victor: “I only wanted to check on Tristan. He was crying, and I thought she was sleeping…”

Narcisse: “Armand.”

He said, turning his back on Victor entirely.

Narcisse: “Help me carry her to her chambers. Have hot water drawn immediately, and prepare chamomile tea. No coffee. Nothing bitter.”

Armand: “Right away, Monsieur Beaumont.”

Together, they lifted Charlotte to her feet. Victor moved to take her arm, but Narcisse shot him a look so cold it froze him in his tracks.

Charlotte leaned heavily into her brother, her eyes half-shut against the blinding glare of the summer sun, whispering nonsense words into the collar of his damp coat. Narcisse tightened his grip around her, sheltering her head against his shoulder as they began the slow, agonizing march back toward the estate’s stone walls.

Once inside the cool, dimly lit manor, Armand gently took over, placing a steady arm around Charlotte’s trembling shoulders.

Armand: “Allow me, Monsieur Beaumont. I will see Madame Trémaux safely to her chambers and have the bath prepared.”

Narcisse gave a singular, taut nod, stepping back to let the butler guide the shivering girl toward the grand central staircase. Charlotte offered no resistance, her feet dragging softly against the runner as Armand murmured quiet reassurances and ushered her up to the second floor.

Left behind at the threshold of the salon, Narcisse turned slowly to face Victor. Silence stretched heavily between them, thick with the unsaid tension.

Victor wiped a hand down his face, avoiding Narcisse’s piercing gaze.

Victor: “I should check on Tristan again...”

He muttered, his voice barely audible as he turned to make a swift exit toward the hallway.

Before Victor could take two steps, Narcisse moved with sudden, predatory quickness. He reached out, his fingers locking around Victor’s forearm like a vise, jerking him backward.

Narcisse whipped his other hand up, clamping it firmly over Victor’s mouth and pinning him against the wall. He pulled his hand away, and his mouth crashed onto Victor’s. Victor thrashed and screamed into his mouth. Narcisse pinned his hands back and locked his gaze on Victor.

Narcisse: “What about what WE share, Victor?!”

He rasped. Victor let out a loud, agonizing wail that reverberated off the stone walls, his voice cracking under the weight of his grief and despair.

The agonizing cry pierced through the quiet corridors of the Beaumont manor, rattling the high ceilings and carrying down the long stone hallways to where Armand was settling Charlotte into her room.

Charlotte: “Close the damn door, Armand! I am sick of that man and my brother!”

Armand gave a quiet, understanding nod and pulled the door shut; the heavy oak muffled the angry shouts echoing from the hallway. He turned back toward Charlotte with a calm, reassuring presence, stepping softly across the rug.

Armand: “Very well, Madame. The door is closed.”

He said gently, placing a soft towel near the washbasin before pouring a steaming cup of chamomile tea.

Armand: “Let us leave the lower floor to itself for now. Rest yourself; you are safe in your chambers.”

Charlotte turned to her side.

Charlotte: “The only man who ever loved me was Julien… and he’s gone…”

She wept and clutched her stomach.

Charlotte: “And the only piece of him I had left is gone…”

She sobbed loudly into her pillow.

~

Night fell over the Beaumont estate with a stifling, heavy hush, the heat of the July afternoon lingering in the stone walls. Down the long eastern wing, behind the heavy oak door of her bedchamber, the brass bolt had slid firmly into place hours ago.

Inside the darkened room, the draperies were drawn shut against the moonlit lake. Charlotte lay curled on her side atop the tangled silk counterpane, her knees drawn tightly toward her chest. She was still shivering in fits and starts, though the bath had been scalding. Her white hair was fanned out across the pillows, damp strands sticking to her hollowed cheeks. Every breath came as a ragged, smothered gasp, her hand clutched white-knuckled against her mouth to swallow the sobs tearing through her throat. The manor’s oppressive silence felt like an iron weight pressing down on her ribs, broken only by her muffled weeping and faint, phantom echoes that seemed to rattle the floorboards.

At the far end of the hall, the nursery glowed with the soft amber light of a single low lamp.

Victor sat in the wide mahogany rocking chair, his sleeves rolled up and rumpled, his hair falling untidily across his brow. Cradled gently against the crook of his arm was week-old Tristan, wrapped in a soft white receiving blanket. Victor held the glass bottle with careful, measured patience, his thumb softly brushing against the baby’s downy cheek as the infant drank with steady, quiet gulps.

A soft knock sounded, and the nursery door swung open just an inch. Armand slipped quietly inside, carrying a small tray with a fresh decanter of warmed water and a clean linen cloth.

Armand: “I brought the fresh linens, Monsieur Trémaux.”

He murmured, keeping his voice near a whisper so as not to disturb the feeding.

Victor: “Thank you, Armand. Just... set them on the dresser, please.”

He said softly. He didn’t look up right away, his gaze fixed on the small, fragile face resting against his chest. When the baby finally released the nipple with a faint sigh, Victor gently tilted him upward against his shoulder, patting his tiny back in slow, rhythmic circles.

Armand set the tray down with practiced silence, glancing toward the closed door that connected the nursery corridor to the master suites.

Armand: “Madame Charlotte has not opened her door. Master Narcisse attempted to speak with her an hour ago, but she did not answer. She has taken no tea.”

Victor let out a long, shuddering breath and rested his cheek briefly against his son’s soft white hair. He recalled Narcisse on top of him earlier while Victor lay there taking it all. A ragged sob escaped Victor’s throat.

Victor: “She hasn’t touched him, Armand.”

Armand paused, his hands clasped neatly before him, his expression carefully guarded.

Victor: “Not once.”

He whispered, his voice cracking with an exhaustion that ran far deeper than lack of sleep. His shoulders slumped, the gold bracelet on his wrist clinking faintly against the rocking chair's carved wood.

Victor: “When she gave birth to him, she looked at him as if he were an open wound. She pushed him away before I could even take him. She hasn’t held him.”

The butler’s eyes softened with quiet sorrow, though he remained standing at rigid attention.

Armand: “The delivery was prolonged, Monsieur Trémaux. The physicians often say the mind requires time to settle after such an ordeal.”

Victor: “It isn’t just that.”

He said, looking up. A profound, aching sorrow carved deep lines into his face.

Victor: “I asked her what she wanted to call him. She wouldn’t even turn her head from the wall. She just told me, ‘Give it whatever name you like. It doesn’t matter.’ She wouldn’t say the word, son. She wouldn’t say Tristan.”

Tristan gave a soft, sleepy whimper, nuzzling into the collar of Victor's waistcoat. Victor instinctively brought a hand up to cup the back of the baby’s neck, his touch extraordinarily gentle.

Victor: “I had to name him alone, Armand. I wrote it down myself while she stared at the ceiling.”

He murmured, his throat working around a thick lump of grief.

Victor: “Look at him. He is so small, so completely innocent. And she looks at him as though he has destroyed her.”

Armand: “Madame is very unwell, Monsieur.”

He said gently, his measured cadence carrying a solemn weight.

Armand: “Charlotte has not been the same since Master Gaston has passed. She retreats to where no one can touch her when she’s like this.”

Victor: “And what happens to him while she hides behind that locked door?”

He looked down at the child in his arms, his thumb tracing the gentle curve of Tristan’s brow.

Victor: “What happens to Tristan?”

Armand took half a step forward, his voice steady and resolute in the quiet nursery.

Armand: “He has a father who holds him, Monsieur. For tonight, that must be enough.”

Victor nodded slowly, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, though he swallowed them down. He didn’t want Narcisse to know he cried. He leaned over and pressed a tender, lingering kiss to the crown of his newborn son’s head, rocking in the room’s silence.

~

The chill woke Victor before the crying did.

He had drifted off on the small velvet settee near the corner of the nursery, still in his waistcoat and trousers, an arm slung over his eyes. When his consciousness returned, the first sensation wasn’t sound—it was the bitter, biting sting of winter air on his exposed wrists and bare ankles. In the stifling humidity of late July, it made no sense.

Victor sat up, groggy and disoriented, his breath instantly catching in his throat.

A pale plume of white vapor plumed from his lips.

Victor: “What in the world?”

He muttered, shivering violently as goosebumps erupted across his arms.

He reached blindly for his glasses on the side table, his fingers brushing against cold, slick glass. Slipping them on, the dim nursery resolved into a scene of pure, surreal impossibility.

The heat of the summer night had completely vanished. A thick crust of white frost crept across the dark oak floorboards, branching outward like intricate ferns from the room’s center. The brass oil lamp on the dresser wore a delicate skin of rime, its flame guttering low in the icy draft. Fine needles of ice hung from the edges of the lace curtains, and the windowpanes were entirely opaque, frosted over from the inside out in intricate, crystalline spirals.

From inside the carved wooden crib came a sharp, panicked wail.

Victor: “Tristan!”

He scrambled off the couch, his feet recoiling as they hit the ice-glazed wood. He slid slightly, catching his balance on the rim of the changing table, which creaked under a frost-rimmed edge.

The cold was radiating in violent waves straight from the crib.

Victor leaned over the rail. The heavy wool blankets were stiff and frozen solid, crackling like dry parchment as he touched them. At the center lay seven-day-old Tristan, his little fists clenched tight against his chest, kicking desperately against the swaddling. The infant’s breath hitched, small bursts of steam billowing from his mouth with every shriek. Tiny, glittering crystals of ice were forming across the hem of his gown, creeping up the wooden spindles of the bassinet like reaching vines.

The baby’s inherent cryokinesis, dormant until this moment of distress, had surged outward in pure, instinctual fright.

Victor: “Shh, shh, mon petit, it’s all right… Papa is here…”

He choked out, his teeth chattering from the sub-zero blast rolling off the mattress.

He reached down, his hands trembling. The moment his skin touched the blankets, a bolt of numbness bit into his fingers, but Victor didn't hesitate. He thrust his hands underneath the frozen layers, wrapping his warm palms firmly around his son’s body, and lifted him out of the icy nest.

Tristan’s little frame was shockingly cold to the touch, cheeks flushed a pale, frostbitten blue. As soon as Victor pressed the boy against his chest, the child’s wails turned into frantic, hiccupping sobs. The chill immediately bit through Victor’s linen shirt, burning his chest with stinging cold. Still, the young father only pulled him closer, tucking Tristan beneath the front of his woolen waistcoat and curling his body protectively over him.

Victor: “I’ve got you. I’m right here…”

He murmured into the crown of Tristan’s head, rocking back and forth on the frostbitten floor. Victor: “You’re safe, Tristan.”

Victor brought his hands up, blowing steady, warm breaths over the infant’s tiny, clenched fists, using his body heat to melt the frost clinging to the boy's lashes and white hair. He paced the frozen floorboards, oblivious to the numbing sting beneath his feet, whispering rhythmic French nursery rhymes into the frigid air.

Slowly, the violent drop in temperature began to stall.

Sensing the warmth and the steady, thumping heartbeat beneath Victor’s chest, Tristan's rigid body began to soften. The sharp shrieks dwindled into shuddering whickers, his little fingers uncurling to clutch tightly at the fabric of Victor’s shirt. The creeping tendrils of ice along the crib stopped advancing, settling into a quiet, brittle hush.

Outside in the hall, hurried footsteps echoed against the stone, followed by a sharp rap at the nursery door.

Narcisse: “Victor?”

His voice was tense, edged with razor-sharp urgency.

Narcisse: “What is that draft? Victor, open the door.”

Victor stopped his pacing, holding his son tight against his heart as the infant finally closed his eyes, lulled by his father's warmth. Victor looked around the frozen room—at the frosted glass, the icicles clinging to the lace, and the power his newborn child possessed—and took a long, steady breath.

Victor: “Give us a moment, Narcisse.”

He called back softly, his voice trembling with fierce, protective defiance.

Victor: “He’s back to sleep now.”

The heavy oak door suddenly burst open with a harsh click, swinging wide to let the faint, warm hallway air collide with the nursery’s sub-zero chill. Narcisse stood framed in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the corridor’s muted light. His eyes widened slightly as they swept across the scene—the frosted floorboards, the glittering ice clinging to the crib spindles, and the opaque, crystallized windowpanes.

Instead of alarm or shock, a slow, calculated smile curled the corners of his lips. He stepped into the room, his boots crunching quietly over the thin skin of frost. His gaze locked on the infant cradled against Victor’s chest as faint wisps of icy vapor faded from the air.

Narcisse: “It worked…”

He whispered under his breath, a cold, quiet satisfaction lacing his voice as he looked at the newborn’s manifest power.

Victor: “He inherited his mom’s powers!”

He smiled. Narcisse snorted and shook his head.

Narcisse: “Once he reaches adulthood, his power will eclipse Charlotte’s by twentyfold.”

Victor’s bottom lip trembled as he held baby Tristan close against his chest, his eyes shining with unshed tears as he looked down at his newborn son.

Narcisse: “The project our dear father invested in actually worked. Wouldn’t he be so happy to know it worked, especially on his prince?”

He said with disdain.

~

The violent shatter of hand-blown crystal echoed down the grand corridors of the Beaumont estate, shattering the tense stillness of the late morning.

Inside the main salon, chaos had consumed the room. An antique porcelain vase lay pulverized into jagged shards across the Persian rug; books were torn from their shelves, pages fluttering like dying birds; and heavy velvet draperies hung half-ripped from their brass rings. At the center of the wreckage stood Charlotte, her chest heaving violently, wild white hair spilling loose over the collar of her pale dressing gown. Her eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with furious, manic fire, and her knuckles were bruised and white from hurling whatever ornament came within arm’s reach.

Victor stood frozen near the salon’s arched entrance, his eyes wide with shock.

Victor: “Charlotte, stop—please, you’re going to hurt yourself!”

Charlotte whirled on him, grabbed a heavy bronze candlestick from a console table, and hurled it with ferocious force. It struck the doorframe inches from Victor’s temple, carving a deep gouge into the dark woodwork before crashing to the floor.

Charlotte: “Get out!”

She shrieked, her voice raw, cracking on a note of hysterical agony.

Charlotte: “Get away from me, you hypocrite! You liar!”

Victor: “Charlotte, what are you talking about?”

He took a cautious, desperate step forward, his hands raised in surrender.

Victor: “What has gotten into you? Yesterday at the lake—and now this—”

Charlotte: “Do not play the saint with me, Victor!”

She screamed, pointing a trembling, accusing finger directly at his chest. Saliva flew from her lips as her body shook from head to foot with venomous rage.

Charlotte: “You think I don’t see? You think I am blind in my own home?! The whispered conferences in the corridors, the quiet glances across the dining room, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching!”

A sickening knot formed in Victor’s stomach.

Charlotte: “You’re fucking my brother!”

Her voice shattered across the high ceilings like a thunderclap, vibrating with grotesque humiliation and despair.

Charlotte: “You gave me a child, you put a ring on my finger, and all the while you were crawling into bed with my own brother! With Narcisse!”

The air in the room seemed to evaporate instantly. Victor stared at her, utterly paralyzed, the blood draining from his face until he was as pale as marble.

Victor: “It’s not like that, Charlotte! I never wanted it!”

He cried.

Charlotte: “Do you take me for a fool?!”

She shrieked, clutching her temples as if trying to hold her fracturing mind together, her voice descending into a wretched, strangled sob.

Charlotte: “My husband... and my brother! In my house, while I carried that child in my womb! Narcisse touches you with hands that should despise you, and you look at him like—like he is your savior! How long, Victor?! How long have you been sleeping with Narcisse behind my back?!”

Victor: “NARCISSE RAPED ME!”

He shouted back, voice cracking.

Victor: “Narcisse raped me! HE RAPED ME, AND YOU DID NOTHING!”

She unleashed a blast of ice directly at Victor, throwing him backward onto the floor. As his injuries began to mend automatically, Victor wept from the agony.

She lunged forward, sweeping an entire silver tea service off a marble pedestal with a deafening, clattering roar of dented metal and spilling dregs. She fell to her knees among the ruin, her face buried in her trembling hands, her breathless screams dissolving into agonizing, ragged sobs that shook her entire frame.

Narcisse stood in the entrance, perfectly composed, dressed in a sharp, immaculate suit, though the color had completely vanished from his lips. Behind him stood Armand, his face an impenetrable, sorrowful mask of stone.

Narcisse’s cold, calculated gaze moved slowly from the shattered glass on the floor to Victor weeping there, and finally down to his sister weeping among the wreckage.

Charlotte: “You want him more than I ever did, Narcisse! SO TAKE HIM!!”

The words tore from Charlotte’s throat like broken glass, echoing off the high, plaster-molded ceiling of the destroyed salon. She stayed on her knees amid the pulverized china and dented silver, hair hanging in violent, tangled curtains around her flushed face, pointing an accusing, trembling arm straight at Narcisse.

Charlotte: “You think I haven’t seen the disgust on your face every time you look at me? You think I don't know what you covet? You’ve always hated that he was mine! So take him, Narcisse! Take him, take the baby, take the whole filthy, poisoned ruin of this family, because I want none of it! Take him!"

She snarled without looking at him, her manic, bloodshot eyes locked entirely onto her brother.

Narcisse did not flinch, but an awful, lethal stillness fell over him. His eyes narrowed into razor-thin slits of icy disdain, though a muscle in his jaw twitched with violent, restrained fury. The air in the salon seemed to plummet in temperature, thick and suffocating with raw animosity.

Slowly, Narcisse stepped over a jagged shard of rose quartz from a ruined lamp, his polished loafers crunching softly against the debris. He didn’t spare Victor a glance; his gaze bore down mercilessly on Charlotte.

Narcisse: “Have you finished your spectacle, Charlotte?”

His voice was dangerously quiet, a velvet blade dripping with venom.

Narcisse: “Or do you intend to bring down the rest of the ceiling to announce your hysteria to the entire province?”

Charlotte let out a wet, mocking laugh that cracked into a sob.

Charlotte: “Call it hysteria! Deny it! Look him in the eye and deny what you feel, Narcisse! You couldn’t bear to see him touch me, could you? You couldn’t bear that he gave me a child!”

Narcisse stopped two paces before her, towering over her kneeling form.

Narcisse: “I think it bothers you that someone chose me over you, which Victor has.”

Victor flinched and sobbed. Narcisse turned toward Armand, who stood by the door with a face carved from granite.

Narcisse: “Armand…”

He commanded.

Narcisse: “Summon the physician. Prepare a sedative, and have two of the housemaids bring Charlotte to her quarters. She is not to leave her room until her mind is returned to her.”

Charlotte: “Narcisse—no!”

She scrambled backward against the ruined settee, her knuckles scraping raw against broken porcelain, terror suddenly breaking through the rage in her voice.

Charlotte: “Don’t you touch me! Don’t you dare lock me away!”

Narcisse: “You surrendered your authority the moment you destroyed this house and abandoned your newborn son to freeze in his crib.”

He said icily, turning his back on her without a shred of pity.

He cast a single, lustful glare at Victor.

Narcisse: “And you.”

Victor scrambled to his feet and ran down the corridor. Narcisse shot out his hand, trapping him in a purple bubble.

Narcisse: “Don’t leave me, Victor. We have my dear sister out of the way, and no one can interrupt us now.”

With a flick of his wrist, Narcisse snapped his fingers, and the glowing purple bubble popped with a soft hiss of energy. Released instantly, Victor stumbled, but before he could regain his footing, Narcisse lunged forward and slammed him down onto the floor.

Narcisse pinned Victor's wrists firmly against the hard floorboards, straddling him to prevent any chance of escape. Victor thrashed underneath him, throwing his head back, and let out a loud, piercing scream that echoed wildly off the walls of the corridor.

~

Upstairs in the nursery, the fallout of the downstairs screaming tore through the fragile peace.

Sensory aftershocks of shouting, slammed doors, and raw hostility filtered through the floorboards, terrifying eight-day-old Tristan. In his wooden bassinet, the newborn began to wail—a shrill, breathless shriek that triggered his nascent cryokinesis in violent, instinctual surges.

The air plummeted far below freezing within seconds.

As the infant’s cheeks flushed pale and wet, his hot tears didn’t roll down his skin; they hardened into tiny, faceted pearls of clear ice, clicking like glass marbles as they spilled across his receiving blanket. The moisture in the stifling summer air was violently seized and crystallized. Sheets of translucent permafrost swept up the nursery walls, climbing like glacial ivy over the wainscoting and extinguishing the afternoon sunlight behind a two-inch glaze of dense, blue-white ice.

Icicles lengthened from the ceiling plaster like dripping daggers. The polished floorboards turned into slick sheets of frost, and the lace canopy above the crib froze solid, transforming the nursery into an eerie, silent cavern of absolute winter.

A soft creak broke the crackling freeze.

The heavy nursery door, left unlatched in the midday turmoil, was pushed open an inch by a flat, cream-and-chocolate face.

Into the freezing mist stepped Louis, Narcisse’s prized Himalayan cat.

The cat was a creature of immense, plush poise, with an extravagant cloud of cream-colored fur, dark seal-point velvet on his ears and mask, and round, luminous sapphire eyes. Where any other creature would have bolted from the unnatural, stinging chill, Louis merely blinked through the swirling vapor, utterly unbothered by the cold that glazed his whiskers.

His padded, tufted paws made quiet, rhythmic crunches on the rime-coated floor as he trotted toward the storm's epicenter.

Reaching the wooden crib, Louis coiled his muscular hind legs and sprang up with effortless grace, landing softly on the iced rim before stepping down onto the rigid, crackling mattress.

Tristan was crying hoarsely, tiny fists punching the frigid air, small plumes of vapor jetting from his lips with every ragged sob.

Louis gave a low, throaty trill—a velvet vibration in the silent, blue cavern. He stepped over the frozen hem of the swaddle, dipped his flat, dark snout, and gently brushed his whiskered cheek against the baby's cold, tear-streaked forehead.

Slowly, carefully, the cat curled his long, thick body into a protective crescent around the shivering newborn. His lavish, downy fur enveloped Tristan’s small frame, creating an immediate, impenetrable barrier of living heat against the ice. Louis rested his heavy, fluffy chin right over the edge of the blanket, tucking the baby against his warm belly, and started to purr.

It was an immense, rhythmic, engine-like purr that resonated deep within the cat’s chest, vibrating right into Tristan’s fragile ribs.

The infant’s cries hitched.

A tiny, frost-tipped hand blindly reached out and tangled into Louis’ thick cream coat. The deep, rumbling warmth and steady, grounding presence penetrated the infant’s panic. The bitter drops of ice ceased forming at the corners of Tristan’s eyes. His shallow, frantic breathing began to synchronize with the slow rise and fall of the cat’s breathing flank.

Throughout the nursery, the aggressive crawl of frost halted.

The rime needles softened, catching the faint, refracted afternoon light like quiet diamonds. Curled safely against the luxurious warmth of his uncle's cat, Tristan’s eyelids fluttered shut, his small fingers buried deep in Louis’ fur as he drifted into deep, peaceful sleep.

~

A dead, hollow silence in the small hours past midnight suffocated the Beaumont estate. In the long corridor of the eastern wing, not a floorboard creaked beneath the soft tread of sandals. Victor moved as a shadow, clad in his faded flare jeans and a heavy denim jacket thrown hastily over an open-collared shirt. Bundled tightly against his chest, cradled inside a thick woolen swaddle and shielded by Victor’s braced left arm, was nine-day-old Tristan. The infant slept blessedly, lulled into quiet by the steady warmth of his father’s body.

Victor slipped down the grand mahogany staircase, sidestepping the fourth step that always groaned beneath weight. He didn’t dare glance toward the locked drawing-room doors or the northern wing where Charlotte was confined to bed under the haze of medicinal sedatives. Nor did he look toward Narcisse’s study, where the scent of black tea usually lingered like an aristocratic sentinel.

The air in the manor felt toxic, thick with unspoken cruelty, paranoia, and the brittle freeze of a family tearing itself apart at the seams. Victor understood with chilling clarity that remaining until sunrise meant the total ruin of his newborn son. Charlotte’s gaze would forever burn with cold resentments, Narcisse would continue to sexually assault him, and little Tristan would be doomed to wither inside this suffocating prison, crushed beneath impossibly cruel demands.

Reaching the heavy oak service entrance near the scullery, Victor gently eased the iron bolt back. The mechanism gave a faint, oiled click. He held his breath for ten agonizing seconds, listening to the house’s vast, empty throat. Nothing stirred—not even the plush, padded paws of Louis the Himalayan. Victor pushed the door open into the cool, fragrant midnight air of late summer and pulled it shut behind him without locking it.

The moment his feet hit the crushed gravel, he ran.

It wasn’t a reckless sprint—he couldn't risk stumbling with his newborn son in his arms—but a swift, breathless lope. His heart hammered violently against his ribs, each thump vibrating directly into the bundle tucked under his jacket. The sprawling driveway seemed twice its usual length, stretching between towering rows of dark cypress and manicured hedges that resembled grasping claws in the moonlight. The gravel crunched underfoot, the sound seeming deafening to his own ears. He kept his eyes locked on the immense wrought-iron gates at the perimeter of the grounds.

As he neared the entrance, Victor slowed, his chest heaving, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his sweat-dampened nose.

Idling just beyond the ornate iron bars, its headlamps switched off to avoid drawing attention, was a battered, rounded Volkswagen microbus. In the dim glow of the twin moons, its panels were a hand-painted tapestry of swirled sunbursts, kaleidoscopic paisley, and faded peace insignias; the exhaust pipe put out a rhythmic, chugging rattle, and the sweet, skunky aroma of herbal tobacco mixed with burning motor oil.

The van’s rusted side door slid open on squeaking runners. A young man with shoulder-length white hair, wearing an embroidered cotton tunic and a string of wooden beads, leaned out into the darkness. Beside him, from the dim interior, sat a young woman with braided white hair and a patterned headband, strumming an acoustic guitar against her knee.

Driver: “Whoa, hey, brother.”

He said, his voice low and laid-back, though his eyes widened slightly as he took in Victor’s wild, panicked expression and the tiny bundle swaddled against his ribs.

Driver: “You look like you just escaped a haunted castle, man. Everything cool?”

Victor: “I just did.”

He panted, his voice raw, adjusting the bundle in his arms as Tristan stirred slightly and let out a soft, sleepy whimper.

The woman in the back leaned forward, her face softening into immediate, gentle awe as she caught sight of the tiny, pale face peeking out from the wool blanket.

Woman: “Whoa, who’s that?”

Victor: “My son.”

He said, his breath hitching as a rush of protective adrenaline flooded his limbs. He looked back over his shoulder just once. Far up the winding private lane, the Beaumont manor sat atop the dark hill like an imposing, black-stone fortress, its blank windows gleaming coldly beneath the stars.

Victor: “We need to get far away from here. As far as this tank will carry us.”

Driver: “Hop in, man. There’s plenty of room, plenty of blankets, and the road doesn’t ask any questions.”

He said, pushing the passenger door open wide.

Victor climbed up into the weathered, worn interior of the van, settling onto the back bench among heaps of colorful patchwork cushions and mismatched rugs. The sliding door rolled shut with a solid, echoing thud, sealing out the damp night air.

The driver dropped the transmission into gear and eased off the clutch. The old bus lurched forward, rattling softly as its tires gripped the winding country highway, steadily putting miles between them and the estate.

Inside the van’s shelter, surrounded by the scent of patchouli, cedarwood, and the warm hum of the road beneath the floorboards, Victor loosened his denim jacket. He cradled Tristan in the crook of both arms and looked down at his newborn son’s tiny face.

The air inside the cabin remained warm; no frost formed on the glass, no needles of rime caught in the blankets. Tristan gave a quiet, contented sigh and fell back into a peaceful sleep, his small hand curling loosely around his father’s thumb as the lights of the Beaumont gates vanished into the rear-view mirror.

~

Present Day - 1987

Victor snapped his blue eyes open, tears brimming and spilling down his cheeks. He turned over in bed, his vision blurring for a moment before his room’s familiar surroundings came into focus. He was still in Pink Top City. Beside him, fast asleep, was his boyfriend, Jasper, whose warm, steady breathing offered a grounding comfort against the lingering shadows of the past.

He reached across the mattress, gently draped his arm over Jasper, and pulled himself closer. The warmth radiating from Jasper slowly eased the lingering chill of his memories, and as Victor rested his forehead against Jasper’s shoulder, his breathing evened out, and he finally drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

In the shadow-drenched corner of the bedroom, absolute silence enveloped Narcisse as he stood motionless, tucked deep into the darkness where the moonlight could not reach him. His green eyes were fixed directly on the bed, unblinking and narrow. He watched Victor wrapped securely in Jasper’s arms, resting his forehead against the other man’s shoulder in peaceful surrender. Every line of Victor’s body, once so tense and haunted, now eased into soft, untroubled quiet beside someone else.

A dark, bitter heat rose beneath Narcisse’s collar. Slowly, his fingers curled inward, compressing into a fist so tight his knuckles gleamed pale in the dim twilight. The pristine fabric of his sleeve strained with the tension in his arm as his jaw set into a rigid, silent line. Standing alone in the dark, watching Victor with another man—especially a non-etheressum who is fat and hideous—left him seething.