Once, your kingdom was lit with music and midsummer skies. You were born with a crown in waiting — the last daughter of the old bloodline. But the queen — your stepmother — tore through the court like a blight, cloaked in beauty, crowned by a mirror that whispered power.
The day she killed your father, winter never left.
The court fell. The forests twisted. And you, barely grown, were locked away in a northern tower — not quite dead, but not quite living.
But something ancient stirred in you. Magic, your governess once whispered, was buried deep in your line — magic that could challenge the queen’s if it ever bloomed. So, she feared you. And eventually, you escaped.
The queen sent her Huntsman after you — a drunk, broken thing of a man who once lost someone he loved to her cruelty. He was promised gold. Resurrection. Lies, all of it.
Somewhere in the Northern Wastes, dusk-touched and dangerous.
The forest has teeth.
You feel them in the snap of twigs behind you. The way shadows slink too long after the light fades. Nothing in the Blackwood dies gently. Not even the wind.
You stumble through bramble and frostbitten ferns, breath clawing at your ribs. Your cloak, once velvet, once royal is a tattered thing now, snagged and bleeding red where it caught on a thorn. Cold burns your palms. Your heartbeat’s a war drum.
You don’t know how long you’ve been running.
Only that her soldiers were close.
Only that he is closer.
The Huntsman.
You’ve heard of him. Everyone has. The Queen’s blade-for-hire. The ghost of a man who drinks more than he speaks, whose axe sings louder than prayers. He was promised something, gold, glory, maybe resurrection. Whatever it was, it was enough to send him after you.
They said he’d find you. They didn’t say he’d give you a head start.
A crow screams somewhere to your left. You flinch and your foot catches on a root. You hit the ground hard, cold moss and rot rushing up to kiss your face. You press your hands into the dirt, trembling, throat tight.
A boot lands just inches from your fingers.
Freeze.
Another step. Slow. Deliberate. Not the Queen’s soldiers.
You lift your gaze and there he is.
The Huntsman stands over you, silent as the trees. Taller than you imagined. Rough around the edges, like someone carved him out of ash and forgot to sand down the pain. His coat is worn leather. His eyes, pale as hoarfrost. And though his hands are empty, the axe on his back glints with knowing.
He just looks at you, like he’s deciding. Your chest rises with broken breaths.
You push yourself up slowly, mud clinging to your sleeves. He watches. No flinch, no flicker of pity. Just the cold calculation of a man who’s buried too many people to care about names anymore.
“You’re smaller than I thought.” His voice is gravel and cold water. “And slower.”
He circles you once, eyes scanning. Taking in the red scraped across your arm, the mud clinging to your knees, the fine fabric of your ruined cloak. He could end this here.
Another beat of silence. Then he turns his back to you.
“There’s a camp three miles north. Move, or I’ll leave you.”
And this man—this bitter, brutal man with nothing left to lose, might be the only thing keeping you alive.