❄️ CHAPTER 1 — THE HOUSE IN THE SNOW AND THE FIRST ENCHANTMENT When Mello opened his eyes, for a moment he thought he was still in the frozen forest — but the ceiling above him was not the snow-laden sky. It was made of light, smooth wood, with old axe marks and a warm glow reflecting the soft light of a lamp. The heat. That was what confused him. His body, always so fragile in the cold, was too warm. The furs covering him smelled of firewood, leather and something metallic... perhaps the dried blood of some animal that had been hunted recently. He rose slowly, his body still heavy as stone. His heart beat faster when his eyes found the mirror leaning against the wall. He approached slowly, almost hesitating.His reflection stared back at him — pale, exhausted, but alive. The shock came seconds later: his hair, once long enough to reach his waist, now fell just below his shoulders, crooked, uneven, clear marks of hasty cuts. Mello ran his hand through the shorter strands, remembering the razor, the fear, the desperation to leave a trail. A lump formed in his throat. ‘You shouldn't be up yet.’ The voice came from the door. Mello turned so quickly that he almost fell. The man who had found him in the woods — the giant albino, the icy creature that seemed sculpted by the blizzard itself — was standing there, leaning against the doorframe as if he were part of the house. Now, without the treacherous light of the forest, his appearance was even more dazzling. His hair was completely white, almost shiny. His skin was too pale, but healthy. His eyes were so cold they resembled compressed ice. And his physique was... imposing. Frightening. Beautiful. He held a bowl in one of his large hands as if it were nothing. ‘Sit down,’ he said, pointing to the table in the small space that served as a kitchen. His voice wasn't harsh. It was firm, confident, but there was an unexpected note of kindness in it. Mello swallowed hard, walking carefully to the table. The kitchen was simple: an iron stove, copper pots hanging, an old rug covering the rough floor, faded curtains. But on the table... silverware. A shocking contrast. Wealth and poverty mixed together. Strength and delicacy in the same place. Just like the man. ‘My name is Karl,’ he said, sitting down in front of Mello. ‘But in the army... they call me Caesar.’ Caesar. The name seemed heavy, like a crown placed upon him by force. Mello lowered his eyes, an automatic bow escaping his trained body. ‘Thank you for...’ He hesitated at the feminine form. ‘For saving me. I... I would have died out there.’ ‘I know,’ Caesar said simply. Mello slowly raised his eyes. There was a slight smile at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't mockery. It was... appreciation. As if he were analysing a work of art before him. ‘Eat,’ Caesar pushed the bowl towards him. ‘You're too weak.’ Mello felt his face flush. The feminine still ran through him, and it hurt, but he needed to keep it. For survival, for habit, for power. ‘What's your name?’ César asked, still watching him with that gaze that seemed to pierce through skin, memory, and soul. Mello opened his mouth and, reflexively, replied: ‘Aimee.’ The false name came out so naturally that even he was startled. César accepted it with a nod, but his sharp eyes seemed to say: I'll still find out what's behind it. Mello brought the bowl to his lips. It was hot broth, with a strong smell of meat and herbs, very different from the rationed food at the Russian camp. The heat went down his throat like a hug. ‘Aren't you in a hurry to get back to camp?’ César asked, eating slowly, as if studying every reaction of ‘Aimee’. Mello hesitated. Thinking about Nyon, Dimitri, and Boris stirred something inside him. Guilt. The need to serve. The feeling of temporary belonging. But... But the memory of the Chinese spy shouting his false name, spitting out the cruel sentence that his brother would have preferred to find him dead — that still burned. Like ice burning his skin. And now, sitting in a warm house, in front of a man who didn't seem to see him as a burden... the answer came almost on its own. ‘No... I'm in no hurry.’ César smiled with the corner of his mouth, satisfied. ‘I figured.’ He leaned back in his chair and, for the first time, Mello felt his heart skip a beat. It was the first time someone had interpreted his emotional response, not just his words. The first time someone seemed... interested. The heat that rose to his face was irritating. Idiotic. Unbearable. But César saw it. And he liked it. ‘You look at me as if I were going to hurt you,’ he said, his voice low, almost amused. ‘And at the same time... as if you were curious.’ Mello froze. How could he be so direct? César rested his arms on the table, leaning closer. His shadow covered part of Mello's face, and even so, he couldn't look away. ‘You don't need to be afraid of me, Aimee,’ his voice was deep, strangely warm. ‘If I wanted to hurt you... I would have done it already.’ Mello took a deep breath, trying to regain control, but his face was burning. His thoughts were jumbled. His power was silent. It was as if César were a storm. ‘Get some more rest,’ César said, standing up. ‘We'll talk later.’ He took a few steps, but stopped at the door, looking back over his shoulder. ‘Oh... and be careful.’ ‘Careful?’ Mello echoed, confused. César smiled like someone who knows more than they should. ‘You're more valuable than you look. People like you... disappear easily during war.’ And he left. Mello was left alone, listening to the crackling of the burning wood. The heat seemed almost aggressive compared to the cold night outside. His thoughts ran like water. Does César know something? Or does he just see me as a lost and beautiful girl? Why did my heart do that when he spoke to me? When he looked down, he noticed something on the table. A white strand. A strand of his hair? No. It wasn't his. It was César's. And it shone like snow in the sun. He held the small strand between his fingers. And without understanding why... he smiled.