I lifted my hand and examined it, relieved to have movement. Each tiny sensation brought a sense of hope. It was a slow, painful process. The gradual thawing accompanied by a faint tingle of pins and needles. Despite the chaos of the roaring wind and the threat of her scarf being snatched away, she smiled down at me as if everything were perfectly ordinary.
As warmth spread to my toes, I sat up, cradling my side where it felt like my stitches had torn. She tilted her head, and the soft brush of her hand coveredmine. An odd sensation followed. The nerves beneath my skin twitched and wiggled, as if worms crawled across my flesh. I scratched at my wound—or tried to—but she held me firm. When she loosened her grip, the twitching stopped, and so did the pain.
“Who are you?!” I screamed over the gale.
In response, she simply smiled and patted my hand. When she looked up, eyes locked on something behind me, her mouth moved, but no sound came out. I attempted to read her lips, but whatever language she used was neither High Wynterian nor Muik.
I twisted, trying to see whatever she spoke to. Sleet swirled and howled, wrapping around itself, then scattering. There was nothing.
Yet, as I watched, a shape solidified in the distance, enough for me to discern the outline. A white stag, as pure as the swirling snow that enveloped it, stood calmly in the storm. Its antlers stretched toward the sky, framing a tall figure astride its back. The figure, uncloaked, displayed only a crown upon its head, crafted from ice. Its crystalline facets glinted in the faint light.
A warm hand gripped mine, and my attention returned to the woman. She stood, pulling me with her as her mouth formed a silent shout. It wasn’t the wind that whisked away her voice—there was no sound. She pointed at the stag, then nudged me toward it. I stumbled a step, peering around her in search of Sainte and the priest.
“My friend!”
She hesitated, scanning the Howl as if she could see through it. Her lips moved, and I focused on her mouth, struggling to decipher the word.
Valahant.
“Yes! Yes!” I shouted, nodding in case she couldn’t hear me. “Valahant!”
She smiled, her expression tender, as if I were a child professing love for their mother. She cupped my cheek, her touch warm and comforting, and I gawked at her, confused. Her mouth opened in a silent laugh before she gestured to the side.
At her command, the haze of snow parted, revealing the priest and Sainte huddled together among the drifts.
“Sainte!”
He didn’t move.
Again, she pointed toward the distant stag, its powerful silhouette turning its rump on us, blending into the snowy landscape. Urgency flashed in her eyes as she released my hand, a silent plea in her gaze. She made a shooing motion, the movement sharp and insistent. As she stepped back, the wind swirled in a vortex, carrying the scent of pine and frost.
“No! No, don’t leave me!” I shouted, stumbling after her. “Please!”
Frantic and unsure, I glanced between her, the stag, and Sainte. Confusion and fear churned inside. Following her seemed the safest bet, but she was clearly leaving me. The stag began walking away, its rider twisting to peer at me with glowing green eyes.
I cursed under my breath. The woman, radiating warmth like summer sunshine, stood there with a sad smile. I turned back to Sainte, uncertainty gnawing at my resolve.
“Sainte! Sainte!” I screamed, voice swallowed by the howling wind.
I stumbled toward his huddled shape, snow crunching beneath my boots. When I collapsed beside him, as if breaking a spell, he looked up. His blue eyes squinted against the swirling flakes before they widened and he pressed his lips in determination.
My vision strained, the biting wind stinging my cheeks, trying to make out the rump of the white stag in the blizzard’s haze. Its faint outline was barely discernible. I trudged toward it, stumbling as the woman’s touch began to fade. When I glanced over my shoulder, Sainte was helping the priest to his feet, pulling the man’s arm over his shoulder as they stumbled after me.
I staggered through the snow, my gaze fixed on the stag’s rump, determined not to lose sight of it. There were fleeting moments of doubt, wondering if I was hallucinating or indeed following a man atop a stag. Logic didn’t intervene to question the absurdity of the situation; instead, I blindly followed the figure the woman had indicated, placing my trust in the warmth I had seen in her eyes.
It was the only hope I had.
Chapter 17
Ipanted and stumbled to my knees. The snow, bleak and dense, rose to my chest. I doubted I could stand.
The stag halted, its fur shimmered in the pale light as it faced me. The snowfall lightened, revealing the figures more clearly. A man crowned with ice—his glowing green eyes marked him as more than a mere mortal. Was this another dream? A hallucination brought on by fatigue?
I panted for air, my lungs ablaze and my chest throbbing. The blizzard’s fury lessened, but the wind still whipped around me, stinging my face. Snowflakes clung to my eyelashes, and the cold numbed my fingers.
“I can’t!” I shouted with as much force as I could.
He watched me in silent disinterest.
