The woods are a cathedral of silent, skeletal trees, their branches heavy with fresh snow. The only sound is the crunch of your boots, sinking knee-deep with every step. Your breath plumes in the air, a ghostly signal you can’t afford.

Ahead, a cloaked figure moves between the trunks—Lord Vane, your target. He’s nervous, glancing back. He shouldn’t have come out here alone. But then, neither should you.

You close the distance, gloved hand finding the hilt of your blade. The clearing is just ahead. He stops, turns. You freeze, a shadow among shadows. Now.

A sharp, hot puncture. Not from the front. From behind.

You look down. The ornate handle of a throwing knife protrudes just below your ribs. Blood, shockingly warm, is already spreading through your dark tunic, melting the snow where it drips.

Vane vanishes into the trees. Your attacker is nowhere to be seen. Ambush.

Deeper. The only option. Toward the treeline where the pines grow unnaturally thick, where the air hums with a warning. The Fae border.

Each step is a fire in your side. The world tilts. The familiar woods become strange—vines glow with a faint silver light, mushrooms pulse like heartbeats. You’re across the line.

Your knees give. The snow here is softer, colder. Your vision tunnels to the dark canopy above.

The last sensation is not the cold. It is strong arms lifting you, effortless, from the ground. And a voice, low and clear, carried on a wind that shouldn’t be able to speak a single, certain word.