Ready to die.

The pain came first.

A sharp sound sliced through the silence of the night, followed by her mother's muffled scream. The thick stench of blood filled the air. The cabin, once a refuge from the relentless cold, was now nothing but a tomb about to be sealed.

Morrigan, only seven years old, watched, unable to move. Fear imprisoned her, like invisible chains tightening around her chest.

"Don't look at them, Morrigan. Don't let them notice."

Her mother's weak, trembling voice echoed in her mind. But it was too late.

She was looking.

The man with the serrated blade noticed her wide eyes and grinned. A jackal's grin, filled with cruelty and sick pleasure.

"What's wrong, little girl?" he mocked, wiping the bloody blade on her mother's dress. "You want to join her?"

Morrigan didn't answer. She couldn't.

Her lungs seemed incapable of drawing air. Her heart pounded against her ribs, as if trying to escape the nightmare.