prologue —— the places from which you do never return

then. the permafrost.

The cold is a cruel monster biting and tearing into her skin with its teeth. The girl shivers violently where she is cowering in the snow and for the first time since she found that she was one of the cursed witches, she finds herself praying to her God— the one, who had abandoned her when he had allowed this cursed magic to take root.

Just this once, she thinks. Please be kind to me. You've taken all else— my life, my family, my home.

Let me have my life.

She doesn't think he'll listen. He's never listened to her before this night after all, why should he start now?

She's a witch, the girl reminds herself and the words sound so much like her father's voice in her mind that she's half convinced he's standing behind her. And Djel does not care for rotten girls like her.

For hours she's dreaded nightfall, but now that the shadows have stretched like languid monsters waking at last around her and the only thing that illuminates her is the tiny flame dancing on the skin of her palm, she's too far for fear.

Death is calling at her door and she doesn't think there's anyone left here to stop him. Even the witches.

She wonders if this is the punishment; from the witches for where she is from or from Djel for what she is.

Either way, it is some punishment. It has to be.

The girl is so busy fighting the darkness creeping into her vision, to not close her eyes against the utter exhaustion gripping her bones, to keep the small flame on her fingers alive, that she barely registers the drumming coming closer.

It sounds foreboding. Like a war drum. Like a rising chorus of the Drüskelle marching to kill another witch girl.

But it's not. It's not a war drum, and it's not the witch hunters. It's the hoofbeats of horses.

Horses that nearly run her over.

Somewhere in the back of her too-far gone mind, the last remnants of survival instinct grip her mind and the flame extinguishes in her hand as she throws herself onto the ground, curling her arms around her head to protect it from the force of horses trampling over her, like it'd save her.

The pain never comes.

Instead, the horses come to a staggering halt mere inches from her and the door to the coach behind them opens.

She thinks it might be black. But everything looks black tonight so it might just be the night playing tricks on her.

It must be the tricks of her mind that show her the man walking to her through the snow, too.

He watches her, clad in dark robes and only stops when he is towering above her. Then, he turns to the coach, where a wide eyes man is sitting, staring at her. She can almost see the whites in his eyes as he looks between her and the man.

Maybe this is Death, and he has come to take her.

She can't bring herself to ask.

They're talking, the girl slowly realizes. They're talking in a language that is not the one she grew up with, but one that she has learned, nonetheless. The vowels and words are so familiar to her and yet so painfully foreign in a way Fjerdan never was, she wants to cry. She wants to scream.

No sound comes from her lips.

The man turns to her again and crouches in the snow in front of her. "Can you do that again?" He asks and she blinks, confused. She must have understood the Ravkan wrong...

"I..." She swallows in a fruitless attempt to wet her bone-dry throat. "Do what?"

She grimaces at the accent coating her words. Her teacher would have her punished for the lousy pronunciation, but she can't help herself. She's glad she even managed to form the words in the first place. Only now she notices that the horses aren't just in front of the coach, but that there a dozen around them, each carrying a rider in dark.

The man in front of her gives the one behind the horses another look. "You are sure there was fire?"

Her insides turn to ice colder than the snow around her ever could be. He wants to know about the fire. Her fire.

The man nods. "Yes, moi soverennyi."

"I... I didn't mean to." She whispers and her fingers spasm in the empty air.

The man turns back to her. Then, "Can you do it again?"

She stares at him at his words. At the flawless Fjerdan coming from his lips. Her eyes dart from him to the other men— all clad in weapons and with expressionless faces.

"Nobody will hurt you if you do, you have my word."

Slowly, she looks back at him. And nods. "I don't think... I don't think I can call it back right now."

"That won't be necessary," the man says and rises up again, holding out a hand. "You can show me later."

Again, she eyes his hand extended to her before her eyes snap to the other men.

"They are my oprichniki. My personal guard. They will not hurt you." The man explains and she frowns at the unfamiliar word between the Fjerdan. She has no idea what it means, but she has overheard enough whispers from her father to know who they are. And who they protect.

Her eyes go wide as she looks up to the man. The man her father called a demon whenever he spoke of him.

They will not hurt you.

For a long moment, she doesn't react. Then, hesitantly, she reaches out with one of her hands.

Surprised she finds that it is shaking; she hadn't even noticed. Hadn't even noticed that the cold had started to ebb away. Living in the North has taught her that this isn't good. That when the cold becomes warm for no reason, Death stands at one's door.

His hand is so warm it feels scorching when he pulls her up. Then, he takes off his black coat and pulls it around her shoulders.

She pauses in surprise when the heavy weight settles around her and immediately, warmth envelopes her. But he gives her no chance to voice any protests before he leads her inside the coach, quietly talking to the men on the horses before they climb inside.

Slowly, she sits down and lets out a breath at the absence of the cold when the door closes.

"What is your name?"

If he really is who she thinks he is then she should not be surprised that he knows her language so well that you would not know he was not from her homeland.

If he is who she thinks he is, then he is one of the witches. The witch. And, she has decided that he will not hurt her. Because she is a witch, too.

And whatever awaits her on this path is better than the ice. It's also better than the fire awaiting her in the North if they ever find out what she is.

"Vera." The girls says quietly. "My name is Vera."

"It is nice to meet you." The man replies and the way he speaks to her reminds her of the way her brother Vaugn had once, when his isenulf had injured himself. The man spoke to her like he was talking a wounded, cornered animal.

The idea is oddly comforting to her. Because it might mean that she is wounded— but it also means that she is an animal with teeth and claws.

The wolf girl smiles and pulls the black kefta closer around her body.