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The man in the castle.

The beast in the woods.

The reclusive heir who owns the mountains and everything hidden within them.

I’ve heard every version. I’ve never bothered correcting any of them. Fear keeps people away. And I enjoy being left alone.

I like the silence. I like knowing entire days can pass without hearing another person’s voice. I like eating when I want, sleeping when I want, and moving through my home without interruptions or obligations. Solitude isn’t a burden I’ve been forced to carry. It’s a choice I’ve defended for most of my adult life.

When my mother died twelve years ago, I was eighteen. The castle became mine overnight. My father had already been dead for years by then. The servants he’d dismissed long before his death had never returned, leaving my mother and me alone in a castle built for far more people than either of us could ever hope to fill.

It was just us.

It had been just us for years. Then suddenly, it was only me.

The castle remained.

So did I.

It’s been just me ever since.

Exactly the way I prefer it.

I step onto the balcony and rest both hands against the cold stone railing. A breeze moves through the mountains from the south, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine trees. Sunlight filters through a break in the clouds overhead.

Winter lingers much longer here than it does in the valley below.

The snow covering the grounds will remain for several more months, perhaps longer in the heavily shaded areas under the trees. The mountains beyond the castle are still painted almost entirely white.

Eventually, everything will turn green. Wildflowers will return. The forests will thicken. The streams swollen with melting snow will settle back into their banks. Spring arrives on its own schedule in these mountains, and it doesn’t last long. The snow arrives again weeks later, sealing everything away.

That suits me perfectly.

Behind me, an impatient meow cuts through the silence.

Then another.

Then another.

Each one grows increasingly offended.

I close the balcony doors and walk back into my bedroom.

A large tabby cat pushes past my legs, clearly annoyed that I’m in her way.

“Soleil,” I mutter.

The cat ignores me completely.

Grey, white, and black fur ripples as she leaps effortlessly onto the fireplace mantel. Her tail sways behind her while she inspects every object resting along the narrow ledge. A small brass frame catches her attention first.

She bats it onto the carpet.

Then a candle holder.

Then a stack of folded letters.

Apparently satisfied with the destruction she’s caused, she jumps down and settles into a patch of sunlight stretching across the faded carpet near the window.