Ded Moroz's eyes seemed to pick the meat clean from Morozko's bones.  Father Frost stroked his hoary beard, glacial icicle spiked crown resting atop his brow.  His courtiers thronged round his throne, whispering at the scandal of his scion, the bannik bastard born out of wedlock to Snegurochka.

“So,” Ded Moroz boomed.  “You wish to be reinstated to the family legacy and become my heir?  A responsibility you have shirked since your birth, all to save some orphan witch?”

Morozko sweated, the furnace in his belly roaring.  “Yes,” he said, temple throbbing under the scrutiny of his forefather, a man he had never wanted please.

A thin smile graced Ded...