In the vaulted hall of Elareth's palace, light filtered through tall, stained-glass windows, casting fractured patterns on the polished stone floor. At the far end of the chamber sat King Real of Elareth, draped in a deep crimson robe, his face unreadable behind a curtain of age and authority.
Three soldiers knelt before him, their armor dusted from the long journey back from Velmora.
"We have returned, Your Majesty," said the lead soldier, his voice steady but cautious.
"Speak," the King said. "How did it go?"
"We arrived in Velmora as instructed. No one hindered our travel. At the palace gates, King Aldric himself was waiting—with his guards. He received her without delay."
That stirred the court.
From where she sat, Queen Isadora leaned forward slightly, brows raised. "King Aldric welcomed her himself?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," the soldier confirmed. "He stood at the gates and took her in. No servants. No messengers. The king was the first to see her."
A murmur swept through the hall like dry leaves in the wind. Eyes glanced toward Evelyn, seated silently beside her mother. Her expression hadn't changed, but something behind her eyes flickered—a small, sharp tension.
The Queen's gaze narrowed. She exchanged a look with her husband, then leaned back into her seat, lips pursed in thought.
"Very well," King Real finally said, lifting his hand. "You may go."
The soldiers bowed deeply and retreated, their armor clinking as they left the room.
The moment the doors closed behind them, a hush fell over the chamber. Isadora turned slightly to Evelyn, but her daughter gave nothing away—only stared ahead with a clenched jaw and haunted silence.
Later that evening, in the Queen's private chambers, the air was warmer, but the silence colder. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the embroidered walls.
Evelyn sat by the window, staring into the dusky sky, her arms folded tightly over her chest.
Isadora poured herself a glass of wine and didn't speak at first. But she could feel the unease radiating from her daughter like heat.
Evelyn said nothing.
Isadora's voice lowered, a touch more pointed. "Don't let it trouble you, Evelyn. Whatever reason he had for meeting her at the gate… it won't matter now. If she isn't suffering already, she soon will be. And if not… perhaps she's already dead."
That made Evelyn turn. Slowly. And for the first time all day, her lips curled—not in joy, but in quiet, venom-laced satisfaction.
The Queen noticed. She sipped her wine and said nothing more.
The fire kept burning.
*****************
VELMORA KINGDOM
Snow fell like ash from the sky, drifting softly against the towering spires of Velmora's stone palace. The moon was high, full and pale, casting a silver glow across the icy landscape. Within the palace walls, silence reigned—but not in the mind of its king.
King Aldric stood in his chamber, tall and still, his broad shoulders tense beneath a fur-lined robe. He stared out through a frosted window, arms behind his back, his black hair falling loose to his shoulders. The fire in the hearth behind him had long since died. Not that he noticed.
His eyes were hollow with exhaustion, bloodshot at the edges. Not from lack of will, but from years of a curse deeper than sleep itself.
Since birth, Aldric had never known rest.
A witch, once wronged by the crown, had cursed him while still in his mother's womb. And so each time he lay his head to sleep, the same torment returned—cries, screams, the sounds of steel clashing, hooves thundering, fire crackling, and the death-wails of war. A hundred voices tearing through his skull. He'd once smashed his head against a wall in a desperate attempt to silence them. He never tried again. There was no escape.
And so, he stopped sleeping altogether.
His breath ghosted in the cold air as he stood at the window, eyes tracing the falling snow. The ground below was blanketed in white—pure, untouched.
Then came the smallest smile on his lips. Cold. Knowing.
A punishment as white as the snow for the wife with hair to match.
He turned from the window without a word, disappearing once more into the shadows of the palace.
Morning broke with no warmth. Only a sickly gray sky and wind that howled like the lost.
Aurora sat curled in the corner of her room—Her breath came out in visible wisps, and her fingers ached from the cold.
She hadn't slept. Fear had stolen even that from her.
The iron door creaked open suddenly.
Aurora sprang to her feet, heart racing, the cold forgotten for one brief second.
The seamstress entered first and two young attendants followed behind, arms full of fabric. But this time, there was someone else.
A man stepped in. A messenger. Clad in dark blue, bearing the king's crest on his shoulder.
He bowed slightly.
He looked directly at Aurora, voice calm, neither cruel nor kind—just firm. "The king has given you a task," he said. "The outcome will determine whether you live… or do not."
Aurora's lips parted, her breath catching. Her heart thundered so loudly in her chest she was sure they could all hear it.
"W-what… task?" she asked, voice no louder than a whisper.
But the man turned and walked out without another word.
The seamstress stepped forward, quiet and mechanical. "You are to wear blue again."
Aurora blinked at her, confused, chest still rising and falling too fast.
She had never spoken to the seamstress before. Not once. But now, she found her voice again, trembling. "Do you… do you know what the task is?"
The woman didn't answer. She simply opened a cloak, spreading it out for the attendants to begin dressing her.
They worked in silence—draping the blue wool over her shoulders, braiding her long white hair back with icy fingers, pinning it neatly to the side. Gloves were slipped over her raw hands, boots laced up over her pale ankles. The finishing touch was a hooded cloak, thick and heavy, trimmed with gray fur.
She looked like a ghost dressed for ceremony.
Once ready, the seamstress gave a slight nod, and the attendants stepped back. The door opened again. The messenger waited outside, expression unreadable.
He said nothing, only gestured forward with his gloved hand.
Aurora followed.
They walked in silence through long corridors lit by cold torches. No one stared. No one spoke. The air grew colder as they neared the gates, the kind of cold that burns after too long.
At last, they stepped out into the open—the same place where King Aldric had received her when she arrived. The towering iron gates loomed behind them. Snow continued to fall, light and endless.
The messenger turned to her.
"Some weeks ago, the king returned from battle through this path," he said. "On his way back, he lost a ring. Gold. Crested with the royal seal."
Aurora stared at him, heart plummeting.
He looked her straight in the eye. "Your task is to find it."
Her mouth fell open. "Find… a ring? In all this snow?"
"You have two days."
Her knees wobbled, but she didn't fall.
The messenger continued, still calm. "You are not to stray. Archers are hidden in the woods and behind the cliffs. If you attempt to run, they will not hesitate."
Her lips trembled. "But… but how—how am I supposed to—"
He turned, before she could finish and the gates began to close behind him.
"Wait!" she cried, panic bursting out of her. "How do I—!"
The gates sealed with a hollow thud.
And she was alone.
Aurora turned around, a small gasp escaping her lips as she looked out at the vast, snow-covered land before her. Nothing but white. Endless, blinding white.
The wind picked up, slicing through her cloak and skin like blades.
She took a shaky step forward. Then another. The snow crunched beneath her boots.
Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled over as she looked down at the ground, at the thousands upon thousands of identical snowflakes hiding everything.
How would she ever find a single ring in all of this?
A howl echoed from the woods—low and distant, but unmistakable.
Wolves.
Aurora whimpered. Her knees buckled slightly, but she steadied herself.
The wind screamed in her ears, cruel and sharp. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to summon courage from somewhere—anywhere.
She took another step. Then another.
Then, finally, she walked into the white.
—
Velmora's halls were a cathedral of silence that morning—long, echoing corridors filled with the kind of stillness that invited whispers and secrets.
Queen Selene moved through them with a sway in her hips and triumph in her stride, the velvet of her wine-red gown rippling like water behind her. Her servants trailed her—silent, attentive, well-trained. They knew better than to interrupt her thoughts.
Selene's lips curved into a pleased smirk, her sharp eyes glinting with satisfaction at the murmurs of servants in the palace that morning.
"The white-haired queen has been sent into the snow…"
"…..alone… a test, they say… from the king himself…"
"…..Into the jaws of wolves."
"…..she won't survive….."
Selene smiled wider.
She didn't need to say a word. The entire palace was doing the talking for her.
And it was music.
The ghost-haired queen, Aldric's unwanted bride, had been exiled to the outer grounds in the dead of winter, tasked with an impossible search in frozen lands. Whether she found the ring or not didn't matter. She would die out there.
Just as Selene had always wanted.
She passed beneath an arch of gray stone and golden sigils, only to pause as she caught sight of another figure approaching—tall, elegant, and immediately recognizable.
Queen Virelda.
Clad in storm-colored velvet, her hair in a regal twist, she walked as though the corridor belonged to her. As though nothing in the world could shift her center.
Selene's smile stretched thinly.
Perfect.
She stopped in Virelda's path.
"Surely you've heard," she said sweetly. "The witch was sent outside the palace this morning. Alone. The poor thing." She leaned in just slightly. "She won't survive. I imagine her frozen to the bones already."
She let out a short, silken laugh.
But Virelda didn't stop walking.
She brushed past her as if she hadn't spoken—no glance, no reply. As though Selene was the dust on her hem.
Selene's jaw tightened. How dare she.
She spun slightly, raising her voice just enough to ensure it echoed down the hall. "You're just jealous, Virelda! Because the king favors me more than you."
That stopped her.
A sharp silence dropped like a blade. Even the servants exchanged glances.
Virelda's back was still to her, but her head tilted slightly—just enough to acknowledge the insult.
The rivalry between them was no secret. Two queens in the same palace, each vying for the affection of a man who gave little of himself to anyone.
But Aldric wasn't just king.
He was young. Powerful. Unforgiving. A very handsome man—the kind women whispered about when their husbands weren't listening. The kind who could make a queen feel like a goddess… or nothing at all.
And both women had long fought for that dangerous, coveted affection.
Selene knew it. And she also knew exactly where to press.
"You can pretend it doesn't sting," she said, stepping forward now, voice cool and confident, "but we both know whose name he says more. Whose chambers he visits. Who he looks at."
Virelda finally turned.
Her smile was small, calm. But her eyes—they were ice. She took a single step closer, her voice quiet, but laced with steel.
"Don't let the cold smiles of His Majesty toward you get to your head, Selene. They're not warmth. And they're certainly not love."
Selene flinched slightly—only slightly—but Virelda saw it.
She turned again and walked away, the soft hush of her gown trailing behind her like a retreating storm cloud.
Selene stood frozen for a beat, her nails digging into her palms, lips parted but speechless.
The corridor felt colder now.
Colder… and emptier.
But she refused to let it show.
She turned on her heel and walked the other way, head held high.
The witch may die in the snow, she thought bitterly. But I will not lose to that frigid cow in velvet.
Not now. Not ever.
*****
The cold had become her shadow.
Aurora's knees pressed into the snow as her fingers dug through the frozen earth. Her nails were chipped and raw even while in gloves, her skin red and stinging. She had searched all day, crawling across the palace outskirts, combing every tree root, stone, and patch of snow where a glimmer might be hiding. But still—nothing.
The ring was nowhere.
She exhaled hard, breath fogging the icy air. Her bones ached. Her fingers were so numb they barely moved when she told them to. She knelt and dug again, deeper, ignoring the sting of wind that lashed her cheeks like a whip.
Nothing.
Above, the sky dimmed. The light faded into the steel-gray hue of dusk, and with it, the woods came alive.
A howl.
Low. Drawn. Then another.
Aurora froze.
Wolves.
The sound sent a chill deeper than the snow ever could. Her breath caught in her throat. She rose, stumbled through the snow, found a tree at the edge of the forest, and sank to the ground beneath it.
She curled in on herself, drawing her knees up to her chest, the heavy blue cloak pulled tight around her, but it did little. No fire. No food. No safety. Only the snow, and the darkness, and the icy wind that whistled through the dead trees like a dirge.
She tried to stay awake. She told herself she had to. But her eyelids drooped, heavy with exhaustion, and the cold dulled her thoughts like sleep spells. Her head slumped forward.
Above her, the moon broke free of the clouds.
It shone down gently, as if the heavens, even just for a moment, had pity.
And in its light, beneath a frost-bitten tree, Aurora slept.
Dawn broke. She woke with a start.
Snow clung to her lashes. Her body refused to move at first—stiff, numb, barely alive.
And then she saw them.
Two wolves.
They stood barely six paces away. Muscles taut, fur bristling, eyes golden and wild. One of them snarled, low and deep. A rumble that made the ground feel thin beneath her.
Aurora's breath hitched. She couldn't scream. She couldn't move.
Her face flushed red with terror, hands trembling violently as she clutched them to her chest. Her lips parted with a soft whimper, tears already streaming down her cheeks.
The wolves crept closer. Snow shifted beneath their paws. One lowered its head, growling softly.
Aurora froze completely. Please… please…
She braced herself—body stiff, eyes wide—as one of them bared its teeth and crouched, ready to pounce. Then…..
BOOM!
A thunderous noise echoed from deep within the woods.
Aurora flinched, her heart slamming into her chest. Even the wolves recoiled, startled, their ears snapping upward.
BOOM.!!
Another sound, louder and closer.
The wolves turned toward the forest, ears flicking, snarling uncertainly.
Then they ran—bolting into the trees like shadows vanishing at dawn.
Aurora didn't breathe.
For a moment, she could only hear her pulse. Loud. Panicked. Her entire body was shaking—half from the cold, half from sheer, raw terror.
She scrambled to her feet, legs unsteady, and fled—tripping through the snow, stumbling away from the woods into the open.
Her breath came in ragged gasps as she reached a stretch of pale, untouched land.
Then her foot caught.
She fell face-first into the snow.
A cry escaped her lips as she hit the ground, powdery white rising around her. Snow dusted her face, clung to her lashes, and pressed cold against her mouth.
She lay still, coughing, chest heaving.
Then slowly—brokenly—she sat up. The sobs came quietly. She didn't even know she was crying at first. But the tears poured freely, her face buried in trembling hands.
She was tired. So tired.
Her second and final day had begun. And she hadn't found—
Her fingers scraped something.
She stopped.
Turned slowly.
There, half-buried in the snow—something glinted.
Her breath caught.
She brushed the snow aside with shaking hands.
A ring.
Gold. Crested. Royal.
Her eyes widened.
For a moment, she just stared at it, blinking rapidly as if it might vanish.
Then her hand closed around it.
A breath left her lips. Real. It's real.
A sob of joy broke from her throat. Her face lit up like sunrise as she rose to her feet, holding the ring high above her head like a child showing a hidden treasure.
"I found it," she whispered, voice cracking, a wild smile spreading across her frozen cheeks. "I found it…"
She ran.
Snow flying around her legs, cloak whipping behind her, her body nearly giving out with every step. But she didn't stop.
The palace gates stood tall ahead, and as she neared, they opened slowly—cold iron groaning on old hinges.
She stumbled in, breathless, frostbitten, heart pounding.
And there he was. The messenger. Already waiting.
He walked up to her, steady, silent.
Aurora held out her hand—palm open, fingers trembling—with the ring resting in her palm.
He took it gently. Studied it. Then gave a single nod.
"Take the queen back to her chamber," he said, voice even.
Two servants stepped forward.
Aurora didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her task was complete. Her legs wobbled, and she leaned slightly into one of them for support.
As they led her away—weak, cold, trembling, but alive—she looked back once, just once, at the snowy gate.
She hadn't died.
Not today.
-
The fire in King Aldric's chamber burned low, casting flickers of orange and shadow across the stone walls.
He stood by the tall window once more, arms folded behind his back, watching the snow swirl and settle in the fading afternoon light. His black cloak swept the floor, and the gold crest of Velmora caught the flamelight on his shoulder.
The ring had just been placed in his hand.
He turned it over slowly, between two fingers—elegant, precise, like a jeweler studying his craft.
There was silence in the room.
And then, a slow smile curved his lips.
"She got some skill," he murmured, amused.
He turned toward the hearth, still rolling the ring in his fingers. "She didn't die," he said again, as though the thought genuinely surprised him. "Yet again."
He let the ring rest in his palm a moment longer, then closed his fist and looked to his attendant.
"Prepare a meal," he said. "Enough to make up for what she's missed. Take it to her chamber. She's earned it."
The attendant bowed.
-
Aurora lay on her narrow bed, still dressed in the same blue cloak, now soaked at the hem and stiff with frost. Her boots were muddy and half unlaced, and her cheeks bore the faint bruises of windburn.
She stared up at the ceiling, her breath still ragged, her body trembling with exhaustion. Her mind replayed the scene again and again—the wolves, their eyes, their teeth, the snarl before the pounce… and then the thunder from the woods.
What was that sound?
She couldn't tell if it had been magic or some god-awful beast. She only knew it had saved her. Somehow.
She shifted slightly, wincing as a jolt of pain shot through her shoulder from the fall. Her stomach growled—loud and long. The ache was deeper now, hollowing her out from within.
Then—footsteps.
She froze.
Not again.
Closer and closer they came down the hall. Then a knock. Firm. Not rushed.
She sat up quickly, heart thudding. Her legs dangled off the bed, her palms planted on the straw mattress, ready for anything.
The door creaked open.
Two servants stepped in—young, quiet, their eyes not meeting hers.
They carried a tray. And on it: food.
Real food.
Steam rose from a bowl of thick stew—dark, rich, fragrant. Bread, golden and crusty, with a slab of melting butter. A clay cup of warm cider.
They placed the tray on the small table near the corner without a word. Then they bowed slightly and left, closing the door gently behind them.
Aurora stared after them, blinking once.
Then again.
She turned to the tray. Then back to the door.
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her breath grew shallow.
Is this a trick?
Another test?
Her body leaned forward—but her mind screamed caution. Maybe if she touched it, the door would swing open again and they'd laugh, or drag her out for breaking another unspoken rule. Maybe they'd poisoned it. Maybe it was a game—more of Aldric's twisted ways.
Her lips parted, dry and cracked. She licked them unconsciously.
The smell was too strong. Too warm. Her belly clenched again, louder now.
She hadn't eaten in two days. Maybe more.
Her eyes burned. Not with fear now—but want.
And without another thought, she rose, stumbled to the tray like someone crawling through a dream and dug in.
Her fingers tore the bread before her mind could catch up. She dipped it into the stew, soaked it until it dripped, and shoved it into her mouth.
It burned. It stung her tongue. She didn't care.
She ate fast, like a starving dog. Like a girl who had fought snow and wolves and death itself for a ring and won.
She finished the bowl and reached for the cider with both hands, nearly spilling it as she brought it to her lips. The warmth flooded her chest. She closed her eyes.
When it was all gone, she sat down slowly on the floor, arms around her knees, head resting against the wall. The plate empty beside her.
She felt full. Not safe. Not yet. But full.