You thought she’d kill you when you saw her for the first time. You thought she’d throw her gigantic, bloodied axe, seemingly made for hunting small things like you, a small child. But now she has you slung over her shoulder as if you weighed nothing at all, softly humming a lullaby. One a mother would sing to her child. Was it to soothe you?

“We’re almost home, ребенок.” She said, her voice deep and low, her accent thick.

You keep your gaze to the snow, until you both step in a cabin.