Into the Wolves’ Den

The wind howled through the pines, a beast's low growl rattling the frozen branches. Snow fell in thick curtains, erasing the road behind them, swallowing her kingdom in white.

Vesaria clutched the ragged fur draped over her shoulders, her fingers stiff and raw from the cold. She no longer felt her feet—bare and frozen against the saddle's rough leather—but would not ask for mercy.

She rode in the middle, bound at the wrists, a lead rope trailing from her horse being led by the man ahead of her.

Khan Azgar.

He sat on his great black stallion with the ease of a man born in the saddle, his cloak dark against the snow, his long hair rippling in the wind.

She refused to look at him.

She had not spoken since they dragged her from the ruins of her burning city.

Azgar did not seem to mind.

He spoke to his men in their guttural northern tongue, the sounds sharp and scary. Sometimes, he laughed. Laughed. As if this were nothing more than a night's raid and not the ruin of her life.

Rage boiled in her throat, bitter and hot. If she had shoes, she would have run.

A smooth voice, filled with dark amusement, suddenly broke through the wind.

"You ride well for a woman of the South," Azgar said in her tongue.

Vesaria's fingers curled into fists, nails digging into her palms.

Was that him baiting her?

Khan Azgar had barely spoken to her since the raid.

He had been watching, though.

Always watching.

He rode at the head of the group, his dark cloak billowing, his warhorse moving effortlessly over the ice-packed trail.

Now, he brought that same beast closer, until she could feel the heat of its body against her frozen skin.

"You're quiet," he observed, tilting his head. "Is it fear, the cold or defiance?"

Vesaria forced herself to smile. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

Azgar chuckled, a deep sound that sent a ripple of unease through her chest.

"I would," he admitted.

The bastard was enjoying this.

She turned away sharply, heart hammering. If only this wretched storm would cease—if only she could see her surroundings, find a way out of this mess.

Then, as if the gods finally heard her, the storm shifted.

A ravine opened between the trees, a narrow path sloping downward into darkness. If she could break free, reach the trees—

Her pulse roared in her ears. Azgar was speaking to his men, his attention elsewhere.

Now.

She yanked her reins, twisting hard in the saddle, and flung herself sideways.

For one wild, breathless moment, she was free.

Then the ground hit her like a hammer. Snow exploded around her, cold slicing through her shift like a thousand knives. She scrambled to her feet, lungs heaving, and ran.

Barefoot. Frozen. Half-naked. She ran.

The night swallowed her whole.

Behind her, the Northmen did not shout, did not curse—

They laughed.

The sound curled around her, dark and amused, echoing through the trees.

"Look at her go."

"Like a frightened rabbit."

"She thinks she has a chance."

Vesaria's stomach lurched as their foreign words echoed in the snow.

She risked a glance over her shoulder.

Shadows loomed against the snow.

They were still on their horses, their breath rising in clouds. Watching. Amused.

She staggered forward, gasping. A branch whipped her cheek, cold burning like fire.

A hoof struck the ground behind her.

Then another.

They were toying with her.

Vesaria forced herself to move faster, her feet sinking into the drifts. The cold, thick and paralyzing, crept into her bones. A sharp whistle cut through the air.

Then—

The hunt began.

Vesaria forced herself forward, lungs burning, feet numb from the cold. The trees blurred past her, jagged black lines against the endless white.

She could hear them behind her—hooves crunching through the ice, Azgar's voice low and taunting.

"Run, little rabbit."

She nearly tripped.

His voice was close, yet distant, carried by the trees.

She pushed harder, lungs heaving, her frozen shift clinging to her skin. The ravine was ahead. A few more steps, and she could reach the river —could disappear—

Another voice echoed through the storm, thick with laughter.

"Too slow."

Her pulse pounded in her ears.

The sound of hooves changed. Faster now.

She turned sharply, diving deeper into the woods, but the snow fought against her. Her bare feet throbbed, her toes numb and useless. Her legs wouldn't move fast enough.

Don't stop. Don't stop. Don't stop.

A shadow passed over her—swift as a bird of prey.

Something whistled through the air.

She ducked, barely missing a thick length of rope.

A lasso.

Another whistle. A second rider split off, cutting through the trees to head her off.

They were toying with her.

A sharp burst of laughter.

"She's slowing."

"Of course she is. She's freezing."

Something dark moved in the trees ahead.

Vesaria veered left, slipping down a steep bank. Snow collapsed beneath her, but she caught herself against a frozen branch, her breaths ragged, desperate.

She could see a break in the trees now—a stream, half-frozen, a wall of jagged rocks beyond it.

If she could make it to the water—

"She's heading for the river," someone called.

Another chuckle.

"Let her."

Vesaria ran harder. Her feet barely felt the ground anymore, her entire body numb from the cold.

Almost there.

She could hear the rush of the stream, could taste freedom in the air.

Then—

Something caught her by the hair.

She screamed as she was yanked backwards, her body colliding with solid muscle. A strong arm locked around her waist, lifting her clean off her feet.

Azgar.

His breath was warm against her ear. "That was foolish, little rabbit."

Vesaria thrashed, kicked, bit. He only laughed, unbothered.

She was once again thrown over his horse like a sack of grain, her breath punching from her lungs.

A voice—low and amused—rumbled above her. This time, he spoke in her language.

"You'll freeze before you make it ten more steps."

Vesaria choked on her fury. "Then let me freeze."

A pause.

Then, softly, "No." 

A signal was given. The horses turned north once more.

Vesaria closed her eyes, trembling with cold and rage. She had failed.

And the worst part?

It had been a hunt for them.

*****

Vesaria was cold.

So cold she could no longer shiver. Perhaps it was best she didn't make it to the savages' camps to be ravished.

Perhaps this was the gods' blessing. She unconsciously pressed her pale cheeks against the warm fur on her shoulder. 

The heavy fur cloak wrapped around her was his, shielding her from the worst of the northern winds.

She had tried to resist, to shove him away when he first pulled her forward, but her body had betrayed her. She was weak, frozen, and her survival instincts had kept her from fighting when warmth was so close.

She refused to think of how she had fit against him, of how easily he had tucked her beneath his chin, or the way his arm had held her steady when sleep threatened to claim her.

The voices of the northern riders rose around them, rough and guttural, their language harsh and unfamiliar. 

Laughter rumbled through them every so often, a sound that set her teeth on edge.

Were they mocking her? Plotting what to do with her?

Her stomach churned. Hunger gnawed at her, sharp and insistent, but she refused to acknowledge it.

Then, suddenly, she felt Azgar straighten.

His grip on the reins firmed, his shoulders squaring beneath the heavy cloak. Around them, the men let out loud cries, their voices carrying over the wind—some calling greetings, others barking orders.

Vesaria blinked against the swirling snow, lifting her head.

And then she saw it.

She had expected crude, makeshift structures—tents, perhaps, or scattered wooden huts—but what rose before her was an imposing fortress. A vast sprawl of timber and stone, built into the mountainside. At its heart stood a towering wooden hall, surrounded by longhouses half-buried in snow. Smoke curled from chimneys, the scent of burning wood thick in the crisp air. Warriors wrapped in furs moved through the settlement—some leading great, shaggy hounds, others sharpening axes against whetstones.

Vesaria felt their eyes before she saw them.

Warriors, women, children—pausing in their routines to stare at the shivering southern noblewoman slumped against their Khan's chest. Their gazes were sharp, unyielding. Some held curiosity, others, thinly veiled distrust.

She knew what they saw.

Her silver-white hair. Her unnatural, mismatched eyes. Her foreign skin. A southerner among them, too soft for the cold.

Vesaria straightened despite the ache in her body. She was Vesaria, daughter of Lord Auren. A noblewoman, not a captive.

Let them look.

She would not shrink before them.

Azgar pulled his horse to a stop, his arms tightening around her for a brief moment before he swung himself down, his heavy boots crunching against the frost-covered earth.

Without a word, he reached up, grabbed her by the waist, and hauled her down.

She recoiled on instinct as her bare feet met the frozen ground, a sharp sting shooting up her legs. But her limbs, stiff with cold, refused to hold her. She swayed—**too fast, too weak—**and would have collapsed had a strong hand not caught her arm.

A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.

"Stubborn little thing."

She didn't understand the words, but she knew mockery when she heard it.

Her lips curled back in a silent snarl, and she wrenched herself free. He let her go, though his sharp blue eyes gleamed with something unreadable.

Azgar turned away, saying something to his men. 

A moment later, they led her through the sprawling settlement—not toward the slave quarters, as she had feared, but to a large wooden hall draped in furs, its hearth burning warmly.

She had braced herself for filth, chains, perhaps even a cage in some dark corner. Instead, when the doors opened, she found herself standing in a private chamber—spacious, almost unnervingly comfortable.

Thick rugs covered the wooden floor, and a fire crackled in the hearth. A large bed, piled high with furs, stood against the far wall—more luxurious than anything she had expected in this barbarian stronghold. This was no prison cell.

She remained standing, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her mind racing. There had to be a reason for this strange hospitality. Were they fattening her up for some barbaric ritual? Planning to use her as leverage against her uncle?

No matter. She had failed to run once. She would not fail again.