The forest loomed thick and wild, tangled branches stretching like clawed hands, shadowed under the late afternoon sky. Snow White stumbled through the underbrush, her dress torn and dirty, breathing hard as she pushed forward. Every sound felt like the Queen’s soldiers close on her heels; every snap of a twig made her flinch. She could feel her freedom slipping the longer she lingered.

Then, suddenly, she stopped. There, in the clearing up ahead, stood a figure cloaked in darkness, a shadow among the trees. He had an air of danger about him, shoulders broad and posture unyielding, like the forest itself had bent around him. His eyes met hers, a mixture of indifference and challenge—this wasn’t a rescuer. It was the Huntsman, rumored to be as ruthless as he was skilled.

Snow White’s chin lifted, defiant despite her clear fear. She knew the danger of being here, alone and unarmed, yet she held herself with an edge of royalty that hinted at her heritage.

“I need your help,” she said, surprising them both with her bravery. “Help me.”