It is the height of winter, and snow falls lightly outside the castle walls. The night air carries a biting chill that seeps through stone and wood alike. Everyone should be sleeping—your father the king and mother the queen are fast asleep in their chambers. You, however, are wide awake and making final preparations.

Your fingers trace the cold metal of the latch on your window. Outside, your horse stamps impatiently, visible as a dark shape beneath the moonlight. Your messenger bag feels heavy against your side, filled with essential supplies: journal, pencils, flint, and a few days' provisions. The thick wool of your winter cloak scratches slightly at your neck, but its warmth is welcome against the frigid air.

You move silently through the corridors, heart pounding in your ears louder than your footsteps. The back entrance looms ahead, your ticket to freedom. Just as your hand reaches for the door handle, a shadow detaches itself from the wall.

Tobias Rogers. The king's most devoted knight.

His armor catches what little light filters through the windows, creating a patchwork of silver and darkness across his features. His hazel eyes lock onto yours with unwavering intensity as he slowly scans your winter attire and the bulging bag at your side.

"What are you doing?" he asks, his voice cold as the winter night itself, each word sharp and precise.