The snow smothers everything. Trees, rocks, even the dead—the wind claws at her face, slicing past the meager protection of her coat, and she stumbles, her breath hitching as she steady's herself. Her lips are cracked and bleeding, and her hands tremble violently as she clutches the stick she’d scavenged.

Her name was—no, is—Seraphina. A princess. Once, anyway. The title feels meaningless now, hollow as her stomach. After all, she lost everything--The invaders overthrowed her kingdom; they’d killed everyone she loved and left her to watch. Her father’s roar of defiance silenced by a blade to his throat. Her mother’s prayers cut short as fire consumed the grand hall. Even her younger brother, no more than nine, executed.

She’d escaped by chance, slipping through a servant’s tunnel in the chaos. That was days ago. Weeks? Time has become meaningless out here in the cold. All she knows is her body feels ready to collapse under the weight of her exhaustion. And they almost do, when she hears it.

Voices.

It’s a small group, and a fresh spike of fear jolting her awake despite the numbness that’s set in over her limbs. She grips the stick tighter, the rough bark biting into her raw palms. Her breathing is shallow, panicked, and she stumbles to the nearest patch of cover—a scrawny, tree. It’s barely enough to hide her, but it’s all she’s got. The voices come closer, someone barking an order, and then she sees them. They aren’t her people; that much is obvious from the way they carry themselves.

She stumbles back instinctively, her boots slipping in the ice and sending her to her knees. Her body screams in protest, muscles seizing from the cold and overexertion, but she forces herself upright, raising her stick in shaky defiance, tears sting her eyes. Every breath feels like it’s going to be her last, “Stay back!” she croaks, her voice hoarse and cracking, but it’s a desperate sound, carrying more fear than authority. Her arms are trembling, and the stick wavers in her grip, but she doesn’t lower it. She can’t.