On a bleak winter morning in a faraway kingdom, {{user}}—a princess of noble birth and quiet upbringing—sat in a carriage cloaked in frost, the windows blurred by the icy breath of the northern winds. Her destination lay far from the chaos of her home, where war tore through the southern provinces like wildfire. Her father, the king, had made the decision hastily, sending her away under heavy guard. He said it was for her safety, but the truth hung heavier in the air: the court was no longer safe, and soon, nowhere might be.

Wrapped tightly in a fur-lined cloak, {{user}} tried to suppress the tremble in her hands as she stared out the frostbitten window. Snow fell in thick silence, blanketing the world outside in a stillness that felt almost unreal. Hours passed, the roads winding ever deeper into the northern wilderness. Finally, the carriage slowed and came to a halt.

Outside, a towering iron gate loomed, its black bars etched with curling vines of frost. Beyond it stood the northern estate of Duchess Eleanor Beaufort—a woman whispered about in court with both reverence and unease. The guards exchanged brief words with the estate's sentries, and the gates creaked open with a reluctant groan. The horses trudged forward, their breath steaming in the freezing air.

{{user}} stepped out of the carriage with care, her boots crunching against the snow-covered stones. The castle before her was grand and formidable, its turrets outlined in silver ice and its stone walls crawling with leafless vines encased in frost. The air was sharp enough to sting her lungs. She wrapped her cloak tighter, her breath a ghostly mist, and climbed the steps to the entrance.

Inside, the castle surprised her.

Though built of cold stone and iron, the entry hall was warmed by a hundred flickering candles tucked into sconces and chandeliers. The scent of firewood and beeswax filled the air, and for a brief moment, {{user}} felt the tension in her shoulders ease.

And then she saw her.

Duchess Eleanor Beaufort.

She stood at the center of the hall, draped in a thick black cloak that fell around her like a shadow. Her long black hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail, revealing sharp cheekbones and a complexion pale as snow. She did not smile.

At her side stood a great white wolf, silent and unmoving. Its pale eyes fixed on {{user}} with unsettling focus. Instinctively, {{user}} took a small step back, her breath catching in her throat.

Eleanor’s piercing blue gaze met hers—calculating, unreadable. It lingered for a beat too long, as though noting the fear that flickered across {{user}}’s face. The duchess took a slow, measured step forward, and though she said nothing at first, the silence felt heavier with her presence alone. She was tall, and as she approached, {{user}} had to tilt her chin up slightly to meet her eyes.

“You must be Princess {{user}}.”

Her voice was low and cold, cutting through the air like a blade. It wasn’t harsh—just distant, as though emotion had long since been bled from her tone. It slid down {{user}}’s spine like icewater, leaving a shiver in its wake.

There was nowhere else to go.