Ives swung the axe again, splitting the next log cleanly. Vetis threw it onto the pile. The day was bitterly cold after yesterday’s strange warmth, and though the alpha didn’t feel well, he still went out to chop wood.

“Master, you should hire stronger servants,” Vetis grumbled. “Too many omegas around, and none fit for work.”

Ives gave a faint smile.

“It’s fine. I can manage. Arien needs help.”

The servant pursed his lips but said no more. He’d served Ives for years — almost family — and the alpha often took his advice. But not this time. Vetis disliked the new master, though he never dared say it. And perhaps with reason — since arriving in the North, Arien had been unbearable.

They left the capital a week after the wedding. The carriage was overloaded, filled with royal gifts and new clothes. Ives had almost forgotten how expensive a husband could be — the clothes, trinkets, horses, whims. Yet he wanted to cheer Arien somehow. After their wedding night, the omega had looked shattered. Ives hadn’t touched him, as promised. The boy had cried until he slept, wrapped so tightly in blankets not even his nose showed.

Since then, he hadn’t spoken. Whenever Ives tried, he turned away, blank-eyed, silent, sitting on one place and staring nowhere. That emptiness unsettled the alpha, but he couldn’t ignore it. This was his husband now — his duty. Few servants remembered Arien’s love of riding and hunting, so Ives came again, finding him in the same place.

“I thought I might buy you a horse,” he said softly. “It’s cold now at my home, but once it warms, we’ll ride out. You can pick whichever one you like.”

No answer.

Ives had lost everyone he’d ever loved; he knew grief’s weight. But grief was a mire — if you didn’t move, it swallowed you whole. Arien refused even the smallest step.

When they reached the North castle, Vetis had already put things in order. He was smiling when the alpha introduced his new young lord, offered food and a tour, calling Arien my lord.

And then, for the first time in many days, Arien spoke — his voice dripping with venom.

“Disgusting.”

Ives looked at him for a long moment.

“Vetis, take Lord Arien to my chamber. Or better — my father’s old room. It has the largest fireplace. Supper can wait.”

The castle stirred again, thanks to the omegas and betas who’d come with Arien. They whispered through the halls, bringing faint life back to the place. Their lord, however, stayed in his rooms. He was impossible to speak to — and when he did speak, his words were sharp, dripping with insult. Ives took it quietly — no shouting, no anger, no raised hand — only silence.

Vetis was gathering firewood when Ives, setting down his axe, took the bundle from his hands.

“I’ll take it myself. Go and prepare supper, please.”

And when Vetis opened his mouth to protest, Ives added firmly:

“Please. Supper.”

The old omega muttered under his breath but obeyed. Ives gathered more wood than usual for Arien’s fireplace — the boy needed warmth. The chamber was the cleanest and warmest in the castle. The moment he entered, pleasant heat wrapped around him… but so did the heavy air of gloom.

Arien sat by the window, just as in Thibault’s castle, staring at the snowy peaks — or at nothing at all. Ives noticed the untouched tray. Again.

“Don’t you like the food?” he asked softly. “Tell me what you’d prefer — Vetis will cook it.”

No reply. As always.

Ives sighed, fed the flames, and watched them flare when a voice cut the air — cold, sharp:

“Why did you bring the wood yourself? Have you no servants?”

For a heartbeat, Ives froze — surprised to hear him at all, and not in anger. Then smiled faintly.

“Vetis is cooking,” he said. “Besides, it’s no trouble. I like making things comfortable for you. Keep talking like this — and I’ll bring the whole forest inside.”

Arien gave no reply, eyes fixed ahead. The alpha, however, refused to back down — if his spouse had finally spoken after so long, he couldn’t waste it. For endless weeks the omega had held his wall of silence, breaking it only for a cutting remark or to tell Ives to leave.

When Ives finished tending the fire, he approached the chair and laid a hand on its back, beside his husband’s head. Arien’s jaw twitched at once.

“Promise me you’ll eat,” Ives said softly, pulling his hand away. “When the frost eases, I’d like to take you outside.”

His gaze drifted to the messy hair. Had the servants grown careless? Then the alpha recalled that he himself had forbidden the “dangerous” sharp hairpins — but that did not mean Arien had to be left unkempt.

“There’s a jeweller in town who makes fine hairpins. We could ride there together.”

The words felt like knocking on a door once open, now sealed shut. Ives waited but there was no answer, onle heavy silence. 

“Have a good day, Arien.”

He stepped back, leaving his husband alone again. Later, he asked the servant about Arien’s hair.

“The young master refuses our help.”

Ives fell silent, then beckoned the servant to follow. He hadn’t opened that small, distant room many years — not since he’d hidden Thibault there. The room of his son, the last one who left him. Lauri — as the alpha had affectionately called him — loved to wear numerous hairpins and hair nets. He rarely went outside; the frosty air was terribly harmful to him, and so he amused himself as best he could. Ives had hidden away all his beautiful hairpins as soon as Lauri breathed his last. From that day on, he had never opened the small chest again. This was the first time in so many years. The elegant little chest standing on the table by the bed was covered in dust and cobwebs. Ives carefully, lovingly brushed them away and opened it. He still remembered exactly what Lauri liked to wear — a hairpin with small bright stones shaped like a rose. A charming little thing.

“It must be ten years since I gave him this,” he murmured, calling the servant closer. “You’ve served noble houses in the capital — tell me, are these pieces terribly out of fashion now?”

“They still wear such things, my lord,” the servant said after a glance, hesitating.

“But they could use some polishing, couldn’t they?” Ives smiled faintly and closed the chest. “Then I’ll take them to the jeweller. Do you think Arien might like them?”

“But these were your son’s hairpins, my lord!” the omega gasped, eyes wide. 

“So what? They’ll do him no good now.”

“But… they’re memory about him.”

“I’ll not forget him,” the alpha said quietly. “Better these things serve Arien than lie forgotten.”

The next day Ives knocked on his husband’s door. The omega had not changed.

“I’d like to take you with me — let me show you the North’s beauty. It's yours now, too.”

At those words, Arien flinched and turned his head slightly. He wrapped his long arms around his shoulders — looking, in that moment, almost like a child. A sudden thought pierced Ives: had his first son not fallen so tragically from his horse, he would have been just like his new husband — perhaps only a few years older.

“I only wish to help you.”

Arien’s hands tensed — one could almost hear his teeth grind. Rage poured from him, twisting his face beyond recognition.

“Help?..” The broken whisper echoed in Ives’s mind.

The door opened with a creak and servant said:

“My lord, the horses are ready.”

Ives turned and nodded. But when he looked back, Arien was again gazing out the window, as if nothing had happened. Only the hand gripping the armrest betrayed his anger — without it, the alpha would have thought he had gone mad. He turned away from his husband.

“Very well,” Ives said quietly. “Tell the stable master to unsaddle the young lord’s horse.” Then added lower: “And make sure he eats.” 

As he rode to the town, he passed through scattered northern towns and villages, where everyone knew their lord well. Word of the new spouse their lord had brought back from the war spread quickly. Those who were bolder dared to talk.

“Children soon, my lord! We’ll drink and celebrate your heir’s birth!”

Ives smirked and nodded, though doubt twisted inside him. He did not touch Arien — how could he? If he had drawn the omega into his bed, or worse, forced him, he would have felt like a complete bastard. No, he had never allowed himself even to think of that. Still, time passed. His first husband had conceived only a couple of months after they began living together. But that had been different. That gentle omega had loved Ives, and Ives had loved him in return. For them, being alone together had been a joy. With Arien, everything was different. Harder.

Deep inside the alpha, ever since Thibault had spoken of a spouse, something had stirred. A small hope — one he had kept buried for years — slowly came to life. He truly wanted an heir. A child. He wanted it badly. But to pressure or force Arien now would have been cruel. He tried to find another way.

Ives found the jeweller and showed him the hairpins, asking to polish and mend them. It was costly, but he didn’t care — he’d pay anything if it helped.

The lord returned in the evening, and the servants complained that Arien had locked himself in his chamber and had barely touched his food. At this rate, he would starve himself to death. Ives pressed his lips together, irritation rising — though neither his face nor his voice betrayed it.

“Arien, open the door. Arien!” the alpha knocked and called at first, but there was no answer.

And then, all at once, fear seized him — he remembered what the omega had once tried to do to himself. 

Ives had always tried to remain calm — even in war, even when burying beloved husbands and children. And now, as he ordered for tools to be brought, for anything at all to break the door down. Blood pounded in his temples, and a single thought hammered in his mind: no — he would not let Arien do anything to himself. Not now. Arien was his responsibility. Ives struck the door with all his strength. He threw himself against it again and again, so desperately that his shoulder and legs soon began to ache. At last there was a crack — and a moment after the final blow, the door gave way. The alpha nearly fell to the floor. 

Arien stood in a long nightshirt, hugging his arms to himself, his lips pressed into a displeased line. His eyes widened slightly, and he looked genuinely startled when Ives stepped closer. Perhaps the lord seemed too intimidating, or maybe it was just the dim candlelight, but for a moment Arien looked like a frightened child again. Yet it lasted only an instant—his sharp features quickly returned to their mask of indifference and complete detachment.

“Please, do not lock yourself in again,” said Ives calmly. “This room once belonged to my father, and I’d rather not destroy what he built — doors included. Are you all right?”

Silence.

“I think it’s time you rested. Sleep well, Arien.”

With a small bow, Ives left.

“What should we do about the door?” Vetis asked quietly.

“Leave it.”

When the fear faded, pain returned — his shoulder throbbed, and his knees ached so that he barely made it to bed before collapsing.

It was heavy. All of it. He was tired — of years, of loss, of living too long and seeing too much. It would have been easier to lock himself away, to fade quietly into the shadows of routine. But now a broken child was in his care — and Ives knew he could never truly heal him. Still, that child might yet give his life a new meaning. Only — how many battles must he fight before that could happen?

Vetis sighed beside him.

“My lord, send him to the monastery. He’ll wear you into the grave. That boy is not like—”

“Like Elin, Alix, and Rigan,” Ives finished. “You’re right — Arien is harder. But I won’t send him anywhere. Wake me early. I need to split more firewood. People say frost will return soon. He’ll suffer without warmth.” 

“My lord!” Vetis protested, but one look from Ives silenced him.

People were right — soon the frost struck again. Even Arien allowed the servants to dress him in heavy clothes.

At last, the jeweller finished his work. It was exquisite — delicate, elegant, costly. Ives carried the chest to his husband’s chamber and found him, as always, by the window.

“I have a gift for you.”

Arien didn’t glance at it. The lord set the chest down anyway.

“Try them on, if you wish.”

He turned to leave — then heard a sharp crack. The servants went pale. Ives froze as Arien, with a blank stare, broke each pin and tore the ribbons one by one, until all lay ruined in his lap.

“I want nothing from you,” he said coldly, sitting back down as if nothing had happened.

No one moved. It was expected that an alpha would punish such insolence.

But Ives only said, “Gather everything and bring it to me.”

Later, turning the broken pieces in his hands, his thoughts drifted to Lauri — the pale, thin boy with soft brown hair and gray eyes like his own. His memory never faded, though others had. The ache of loss stirred again, deep and dull.

Ives lay down in his room. Sleep took him by surprise and dreams filled with ghosts. He woke suddenly, certain someone had touched him — but the room was empty.

Lauri was the very first, and it wasn’t far to go. The lord brushed the snow off a pile of stones and the marker that bore the name: Lauris Gordon Boriel. 

“Forgive me, son. Your father ruined the trinkets you loved.”

He lingered there — cleaning the graves, then sitting quietly, lost in thought. Rising, he saw one of the markers leaning and went to fetch tools. When he returned, he froze.

Barefoot in the snow stood Arien.

His gaze fixed on the graves of Alix and the children.

“There was a sickness then,” Ives said quietly, straightening the stone. “Took them all.”

Arien flinched but didn’t flee. The alpha stood near, careful not to come too close.

“You must have heard of it. Everyone lost someone. I lost them all.”

Arien’s eyes lingered on one marker — little Jonathan’s. He’d been four, like Arien’s son when he died.

“Don’t think — or hope — that I’ll pity you,” the omega said evenly.

“I don’t.” Said alpha and added a little more quietly. “If you meant to run — the forest’s that way. Wolves there are quick. And if you meant to die… there are gentler ways.”

He looked at Arien again.

“Come. Let’s go back inside. You need warmth.”

He reached for his husband’s hand — gently, carefully — and a cold palm struck his cheek. Not hard, but sharp.

“Don’t touch me! You have no right!”

“I’m your husband.”

“No!” Arien shouted. “You are not! My husband is Arman Dolan! And I am Arien Dolan, the younger Duke!”

“No. You are now Lord Arien Boriel — my husband.”

“You are not my husband,” Arien repeated.

War had never frightened Ives — not the kind fought with swords and fire. But this was another kind entirely. And he no longer knew if he had the strength to survive it.