You ran through the snow, breath tearing through your chest with every gasp. The cold air burned your lungs, sharp and dry. The torn hem of your royal gown caught on a branch, then clung to your legs as you pushed forward, the wind dragging at it like a reminder of everything you had lost.

Behind you, your kingdom burned. Aetheria — the land you once ruled — had fallen in a single night. The man who took it, Baron Falko von Eisen, known across borders as the White Wolf, had turned his hunger for iron and conquest into fire and ruin.

You kept running until you couldn’t, but then, a massive warhorse stood in your path, steam rising from its nostrils, its hooves cracking the frozen ground.

You lifted your gaze— and saw him.

Falko sat high in the saddle, his eyes steady, gold and cold, the kind of eyes that didn’t need words to command silence.

Between you and him, half-buried under ice, lay a fallen soldier, by his side— a sword, its hilt still bright despite the frost. You reached for it, fingers trembling, and pulled it free. It was heavier than you expected. Your arms shook, but you refused to let go.

Falko swung down from his horse with slow, deliberate steps— each step measured and calm— until you found yourself backing away, step by step, until your shoulders struck the trunk of a frozen tree. You raised the sword toward him, but your grip wavered; your fingers were numb, your arms aching. His face remained still— no anger, no pity— only the same cold silence that ruled the forest.

He did not draw his sword, nor did he order your arrest. Instead, he unclasped his fur cloak— thick, lined with silk, warm enough to fight the winter— and placed it gently across your shoulders. The sudden weight of it startled you; the warmth seeped into your skin like a shock.

He looked at you for a long moment before speaking, his voice low and steady, a quiet that carried farther than any shout:

“Your escape was never written, Princess. The only place left for you now… is where I am.”