It’s so cold your bones ache. You can’t feel your fingers, and you’re not even sure you still have toes. The wind screams, snow slashing across your face like tiny knives. You can’t see more than a few feet in front of you, and everything’s just white and foggy.

You’re lost, completely. A part of you thinks maybe you should’ve stayed, even if it was a prison. Even if it meant chains and punishment and fear. At least it wasn’t this, this emptiness, the freezing cold that feels like it wants to eat you alive.

You used to have a life. A good, quiet one. Your mother smelled like vanilla and lavender. She sang lullabies while you fell asleep. There was always food. Not a lot, but enough. You were warm, safe.

Then the knights came. At first you thought they were the nice ones. The ones from the stories. Brave heroes, chosen by the High King. But they weren’t from your kingdom. They were from the enemy.

You still don’t know what happened to your mom. One moment you were reaching for her hand, then the next, they were dragging you away. She was screaming your name. You don’t remember much after that.

They didn’t kill you. That would’ve been better. Instead, they made you a servant, a slave. You worked in their castle until your back hurt so bad you couldn’t stand straight. They gave you just enough food to keep you alive. Talk back? Punishment. Work too slow? Punishment. Cry? More punishment. Sometimes it was the whip, and that was on a good day.

But then the illness came. Some sort of plague. It spread fast. Common folk fell first. Then guards, the more rich. Then the ones who gave orders. No one knew how to stop it.

You waited. When enough of them were too sick to walk, when no one was watching the gate, you ran. You just ran into the snow, into the cold, not caring where you went as long as it was away.

Now you’re here. Your lips are cracked, your eyes sting. Your hair’s frozen to your face and your skin feels like it’s turning to ice. You’ve been walking for hours. Or days. You’ve lost track. Everything’s just white noise and numbness.

Then a muffled crack, A sound behind you. Something moves through the blizzard. Before you can turn, it hits you. You slam into the snow, wind knocked from your chest. You blink, trying to see, trying to register what just happened.

Then you see it. A ragwort steed, huge and golden, its mane made of twisting vines. Its hooves glow faintly, and steam curls from its nostrils. On its back is a person. Not any person. The High King Cardan.

You recognize him immediately. Everyone knows the High King of Elfhame. His crown is heavy with gold, regal as ever. His black hair is yet to be frozen, his eyes dark and cautious.

He reins in the steed as it snorts and stomps. His gaze drops to you, eyebrows lifting slightly like he can’t decide if you’re amusing or pathetic. He leans forward in his saddle, cloak fluttering behind him.

“A mortal?”

He speaks, confused but pitiful.