Aria's POV
I run.
The wolves' growls chase me through the darkness. My feet catch on roots and rocks, but I don't stop. Can't stop. Behind me, I hear them crashing through the bushes, getting closer.
My lungs burn. My legs scream. But terror pushes me forward.
One wolf lunges. I feel its hot breath on my ankle. I scream and grab a fallen branch, swinging wildly. It connects with something solid. The wolf yelps and falls back.
But there are more. So many more.
I stumble into a clearing and see a cliff edge ahead. No. No, no, no. I'm trapped.
The wolves circle me, their eyes glowing yellow in the moonlight. Six of them. Maybe seven. Too many to fight. Too many to survive.
The biggest one—the leader—steps forward. Its teeth are as long as my fingers.
"Please," I whisper, even though I know it won't understand. "Please, I just want to live."
It crouches, ready to spring.
Then something incredible happens. My bleeding hand—the one they cut for the exile mark—starts to glow. Soft golden light spreads from the wound, getting brighter and brighter.
The wolves whimper and back away.
The light pulses once, like a heartbeat, then explodes outward in a warm wave. The wolves scatter, running back into the forest with their tails between their legs.
I stand there shaking, staring at my hand. The glow fades. The cut is still there, still bleeding, but something changed. Something woke up.
Did I do that? How?
Before I can figure it out, exhaustion hits me like a wall. I collapse right there in the clearing and don't wake up until dawn.
Day one of walking continues. My hand doesn't glow again, but it doesn't hurt as much either. I find more berries—still bitter, but my empty stomach doesn't care. I refill my pockets at another stream.
The guards said three days to reach Frostveil. I have to keep moving.
By the second day, the temperature drops. I can see my breath now, little white clouds in the air. The trees start looking sick—leaves turning brown and brittle. Some don't have leaves at all, just bare branches reaching toward the sky like skeleton hands.
I wrap my arms around myself, but the thin servant's uniform does nothing against the cold. My teeth chatter. My fingers turn red, then white.
On the third day, frost covers everything. The stream I find is half-frozen. I have to break the ice to drink, and the water is so cold it makes my throat ache. The berries are gone—nothing grows here anymore.
I'm so hungry I feel dizzy. So cold I can't feel my toes. But I keep walking toward those white mountains that never seem to get closer.
By the fourth day, I'm not walking anymore. I'm stumbling. Tripping. Falling every few steps.
Snow covers the ground now. Real snow, thick and white and endless. My feet leave bloody prints behind me. The servant's shoes fell apart yesterday. I'm walking barefoot through ice.
The wind picks up, carrying snow that stings my face. I can barely see three feet ahead. The mountains disappeared behind the white curtain of blizzard.
I'm going to die out here. Not from wolves or starvation. From cold.
My legs give out. I fall face-first into the snow. It's so cold it burns. I try to push myself up, but my arms won't work. Nothing works anymore.
"Get up," I tell myself. "Get up, Aria. Papa wouldn't want you to die like this."
But Papa's dead. And soon I will be too.
I close my eyes. Maybe freezing to death isn't so bad. Maybe it's peaceful. Maybe I'll just fall asleep and never wake up.
That's when I see them. The lights.
At first, I think I'm hallucinating. But I force my eyes open wider, squinting through the snow.
There. In the distance. Lights glowing through the blizzard. Blue and white and impossibly beautiful.
That can't be real. Nothing lives in Frostveil. Everyone knows that.
But the lights are there. Definitely there.
I drag myself forward on my stomach, inch by painful inch. My fingers are so numb I can't feel them anymore. My lips are cracked and bleeding. But those lights mean shelter. Maybe warmth. Maybe a chance.
It takes forever. Hours? Days? I lose track of time. Everything is white and cold and painful.
Finally, I reach them. The lights are coming from a palace. An actual palace made entirely of ice. Massive walls rising into the sky. Gates as tall as trees. Towers that look like frozen waterfalls.
It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
It's also completely impossible.
I crawl to the gates and pound on them with my frozen fists. The ice is so cold it burns my skin.
"Please!" My voice comes out as a croak. "Please, someone help me!"
Nothing happens. The palace is silent and empty.
Of course it is. This is Frostveil. Nothing survives here. I probably imagined the whole thing. I'm dying and my brain is playing tricks on me.
I slump against the gates, too tired to move anymore. The cold seeps into my bones. My eyes drift closed.
At least I made it this far. At least I tried.
"Papa," I whisper to the frozen air. "I'm sorry. I wasn't strong enough."
The world starts to fade. The cold doesn't hurt anymore. Everything just feels... distant. Peaceful. Like falling asleep.
I hear a sound—metal grinding against ice. But I'm too far gone to care.
Footsteps crunch in the snow. Someone is standing over me. I feel their shadow blocking what little light remains.
"What in the frozen hell..." a male voice says. Deep and smooth and surprised.
I force my eyes open one last time. Through blurry vision, I see a man. Tall. Dressed in dark clothes that seem to absorb light. His face is sharp and beautiful and terrifying all at once.
But his eyes. His eyes are the most incredible thing I've ever seen—silver-blue, like ice lit from within. They're staring at me with shock and something else. Something that might be wonder.
"You're alive," he says, and his voice sounds like he doesn't believe it. "How are you alive?"
I try to answer, but my lips won't move. Everything is shutting down.
The man kneels in the snow beside me. He reaches out like he's going to touch my face, then stops. His hand hovers in the air, not quite touching.
"You shouldn't have survived the journey here," he says quietly. "No one survives Frostveil."
He's the Ice Prince. He has to be. The cursed prince who killed his own kingdom. The monster everyone fears.
I should be terrified. But I'm too cold to feel anything.
"Please," I manage to whisper. It's the only word I have left. "Please."
The prince's eyes widen. He looks at his hand—the one hovering near my face. Something strange is happening. The air around me feels warmer. Not much, but enough to notice.
"Impossible," he breathes.
He finally touches my cheek. His hand should be frozen like everything else in this cursed place. But it's warm. Actually warm.
No—wait. I'm the one who's warm. Somehow, despite dying in the snow, despite freezing for days, there's heat radiating from my skin.
The prince jerks his hand back like I burned him. He stares at his palm, then at me, then at the snow around us.
The snow is melting. Just a little. Just where I'm lying. Tiny drops of water forming in the ice.
"What are you?" the prince demands.
I try to answer, but the darkness finally wins. It swallows me whole.
The last thing I hear is the prince's voice, sharp with command: "Silas! Get the healers! Now!"
Then nothing.
Just warmth in the cold.
And the impossible hope that maybe, just maybe, I'm not going to die today after all.