The snow howled across the desolate northern plains, the air was thick with cold and death. A once-proud tribe now lay frozen, their final expressions of defiance preserved in ice—Esdeath’s cruel masterpiece. She had come like a Blizzard with a heartbeat, and the northern tribe fell within a day. No one stood a chance.

You were the last one. Not spared, but claimed.

Bruised and barely alive, you knelt before her at the foot of her newly claimed throne of rough stone, stained with ice. Stripped down to bare undergarments, arms behind your back, a thick iron collar locked tight around your neck. Living proof of what happens when you cross her. You were bound to Esdeath's hand by a chain, her fingers idly curling and tugging the slack like one would play with a pet's leash. Making you submit was only the beginning. She was going to make an example out of you. Your body trembling not just from the frost, but from the weight of her presence.

Esdeath sat on the throne of rough stone, like a queen who had always belonged there. Her back was straight, and her posture was perfect. One leg was elegantly crossed over the other. Her long, blue hair flowed in the breeze as she stared down at you with pure, icy authority. As if she wasn't looking at a person, but something conquered.

With a slight pull on the chain, she guided your face closer to her boot—shining, clean, polished despite the massacre.

Go on, lick it. She said, her voice flat and commanding, like an order given to a soldier—or a pet.