The forest lay in shadow, the night thick as ink.
Only the moon touched it shining it's gleam on it, laying pale light over the snow in thin, silver strokes.
Each step Lyra took was swallowed by the cold, the air sharp enough to cut it whole.
Her breath rose in fragile clouds, each one shivering apart before it could drift far because of the cold.
The wind was soft but deep, threading through the trees like a slow sigh.
It carried with it the scent of frost, of silence, of things too still to be alive.
Her fingers were stiff, the ache settling in quietly at first, then deeper, until it lived in her bones.
She pulled her cloak tighter, but the cold slipped in through every seam, pressing into her chest, her throat, her heart and it's bits in to her.
The snow underfoot whispered with each step, a sound so small it felt like it might vanish if she listened too hard.
Above, the branches held thin crowns of ice, each one glinting faintly in the moon's gaze.
She paused, standing still in the emptiness.
The silence felt endless, yet fragile, as though one sound, one breath too loud, could shatter it.
Her eyes followed the line of the horizon, where the forest met the sky in a shadowed embrace.
There was no movement there, only the quiet pulse of winter.
The cold was no longer just around her; it was inside her, quiet and patient.
It did not rush.
It simply waited, as if it knew it would outlast her.
She took another breath, watching it bloom white before her ,and disappear.
Her fingers tear at the earth, nails bending, skin splitting, with so much pain.
The ground is hard, locked in ice, each scrape sending pain up her arms.
She pushes harder, breath ragged, the cold biting deeper with every second.
Stones cut her palms, sharp and uncaring.
Dirt packs beneath her nails, black against her pale skin.
The frost does not yield; it only waits for her to tire.
Her hands shake, not from fear, but from the slow, steady drain of warmth.
She digs as if the earth might hold a hidden ember, some small piece of heat she can steal.
But each handful is colder than the last.
The collar at her throat is heavy, its metal pressed like fire into her skin.
It burns even as the rest of her grows numb.
It is a chain without a leash, yet it drags her down all the same.
Her breath comes in shallow bursts, white against the black of the night.
She keeps digging, though the skin of her fingers is torn, though the blood freezes before it can fall.
Her body trembles, the ache spreading into her shoulders, her spine.
The earth gives her nothing.
No warmth, no mercy.
Only the quiet scrape of stone against bone.
Her hands still for a moment, pressed to the cold pit she has made.
The frost seeps into her skin, into her bones, into her heart.
She closes her eyes, the darkness behind them no different from the darkness around her.
Her stomach knots, a slow tightening that spreads until it aches through her whole body.
It is not just hunger, it is a hollow that feels alive, clawing from the inside.
She presses her palm to her belly as if she can quiet it, but the growl still comes, low and sharp.
The sound feels loud in the silence, almost shameful, as if the forest itself hears her weakness.
The smell of snow and bark fills her nose, but beneath it, faint and cruel, drifts the scent of prey.
Warm fur.
Blood.
Life.
Her mouth waters, and she bites her lip until the taste of copper dulls it.
The memory comes unbidden ,a ring of firelight, shadows dancing on faces she once knew.
Laughter.
Meat hissing over the flames, fat dripping into the embers.
A hand breaking bread and passing it to her.
She swallows hard, but the air is empty here.
Her limbs feel heavy, as if the weight of her hunger has sunk into her bones.
Even if she saw something move in the trees, she doubts she could run.
She tilts her head back, eyes closing against the pale sky.
The ache in her belly pulses with each breath.
There is no fire here, no bread, no voices.
Only the forest.
Only the hunger.
The cold bites at her ears, but she does not move.
Snow shifts somewhere ahead light, quick the faint patter of paws brushing across the crusted surface.
Rabbit, perhaps.
The sound is gone almost as soon as it comes, swallowed by the stillness.
Her breath hangs in the air, trembling with her chest.
She listens harder, the world narrowing to the sounds the forest keeps.
Nothing.
Then she hears a crack.
Clean, sharp, splitting the quiet like glass.
A branch, not close but not far enough to ignore.
Her heart jumps, beating too loud, too fast.
The trees stand still, yet the shadows between them seem deeper now.
She turns her head slowly, afraid that even that small movement will be heard.
The wind does not stir.
No bird calls.
No rabbit scurries.
She waits, holding her breath, ears straining for another sound.
Silence presses in, thick and heavy, as if the night itself is watching.
Her fingers twitch toward the ground, claws digging into the thin snow without thinking.
One long moment passes.
Then another.
Her heartbeat feels like it might betray her, each thud too loud in her skull.
Still, nothing moves.
The forest has gone back to holding its secrets.
But she knows she is not alone.
The wind cuts through her like a blade, sharp and endless. Her body shakes, each shiver tearing through muscle and bone, but the cold is nothing compared to the gnawing inside her.
Hunger twists her gut, a deep, aching void that feels alive, clawing and biting at her insides.
She presses her trembling hand to the silver band at her throat.
It burns against her skin, a cruel reminder, its edges biting into tender flesh.
She wants to rip it off, feel it snap under her fingers, but her strength is slipping, trickling away like the warmth from her body.
Her lips are split, the taste of blood faint and metallic on her tongue.
She drags in a breath, but it's sharp, freezing air that sears her lungs. Her teeth clatter, rattling in her skull, each sound a warning that she's breaking apart piece by piece.
Shadows press close, curling around her like they know she won't last much longer.
Her vision sways, the edges darkening, pulling her into a place she doesn't want to go.
She swallows hard, the movement scraping against the rawness in her throat.
The hunger whispers again, louder this time, and the cold answers, wrapping tighter around her. Both want to win. Both are winning.
Her legs feel like wet sand, heavy and unsteady, but the cold biting at her skin forces her forward.
If she stays, she will die here. She pushes herself up, every muscle screaming, and staggers toward the faint sound of running water.
The ground is uneven, roots curling up like claws to trip her. She catches herself against a tree, breath coming in ragged bursts.
The air is sharp, tasting of frost and something else, something that makes her chest tighten.
The forest rises before her, dark shapes pressing together, branches knitting into a wall of shadows.
It is too still. No wind. No rustle. Even the water's whisper sounds far away now. Her heart pounds, each beat echoing in the silence.
She takes a step. Another. The quiet feels heavy, pressing on her ears.
Then a snap. A single twig, breaking somewhere ahead. She freezes, eyes straining into the dark.
The shadows seem to shift. A shape moves, just beyond sight, low and smooth, like it belongs to the night itself.
Her body tenses, ready to run, though she knows she cannot outrun whatever waits in there.
She swallows the fear clawing at her throat and steps into the forest. The silence follows, but now it feels alive. Watching. Waiting.