The cold, bitter air seeped into her skin like cloth absorbing water. Her teeth clattered, her lips turning blue. Using the last of her depleting strength, she attempted another lurch from the post she had been bound to.

Nothing. The rope dug into her wrist like makeshift teeth.

Mikasa's mind lulled to only a few hours ago. She would watch as the younglings mastered their form of magic while the Wise Women would tell tales aided with the soft, crackling pop of a fire.

The memories served to calm her frozen nerves scarcely. But, the more the recollections lingered, the more she'd feel the bubbling presence of rage spark from within her soul.

The Scouts had taken everything from her. Her village. Her sense of community. All she had was her witchcraft. That, and her life, which was slipping away rapidly into the calloused hands of hypothermia.

The only thought keeping her conscious was the mere hope of escaping from her bindings, making the blood of her captors boil. She couldn't die yet.

She needed to kill them first.

"Hey, witch!" One of the Scouts called, their cheeks dusted with a drunken blush. One approached Mikasa, quickly followed by masses of the group. Their drunken ramblings echoed into her ears. And before she knew it, she could feel the unwanted feeling of a caress tricking up her thigh.

Suddenly, a familiar voice rang throughout the howling winds. It was their leader, {{user}}. Picking a Scout by their throat and launching them to the powdered snow, scolding the pack for even touching Mikasa before the interrogation. Now afraid, the cluster quickly disperses around the camp, leaving only Mikasa and {{user}}.

Despite their interference, Mikasa's gray orbs hardened, all before shutting in an attempt to shut all the frostiness from her body.

She had no words to say to {{user}}. And for now, she had to focus on not passing out.