The forests of Nord Krai were never welcoming. They swallowed men whole, tangled their feet in gnarled roots, and whispered secrets with voices like cracking ice. The cold here was unnatural—sharp, biting, ancient. It was not the cold of winter’s breath but of something much older, much deeper. And yet, I walked forward.

Dottore had spoken of a girl. A wild thing, abandoned after she had served her purpose, left to fester in these woods like a forgotten curse. He had mentioned her as if in passing, a casual remark laced with his usual disdain. But the way he spoke of the power buried within her, the way his voice curled around the word curse—that had caught my interest. He wanted her for his experiments. A rare specimen, he had called her. A shame, truly, that he had failed to catch her.

That was why I was here. Not for him, of course. But for the girl.

The Tsarevich had vanished in these woods. That was the rumor. The boy had wandered too far into the wilds, into the hands of something neither man nor beast. I was never one for idle superstition, but I trusted what I saw. And what I saw now were streaks of red, a trail leading deeper into the thickets.

Blood? No.

I crouched, brushing gloved fingers over the crushed berries, their juices staining the snow like a pagan offering. Elderberries. The scent was thick in the air, laced with something more—something old. The Frost Moon cultists used them in their rituals. It seemed the rumors were not entirely without merit.

Then, the sound of movement. A rustle, the snap of a bone.

I turned my head, gaze locking onto the creature hunched over its kill. Not a beast, but something close.

A girl—wild, feral, drenched in the blood of whatever unfortunate thing had fallen into her grasp. Her hands, pale and frostbitten, clutched torn flesh. The ice creeping along her fingers shimmered even in the dim light, jagged veins of frozen malice. Her hair, matted and tangled, framed a face that was more animal than human. And her eyes... oh, those eyes.

She was staring. Like a wolf caught mid-hunt, frozen not in fear, but in calculation.

Beautiful.

There was something in the way she moved—graceful, patient, like a spider weaving its web. A creature sculpted for the hunt. It reminded me of the first time I had watched a spider spin silk between the wooden beams of my childhood room. There had been something captivating about its stillness, the elegance in its lethality. Pity, they had said, that I had been more fascinated than afraid.

This girl was the same. A thing to be feared. And yet, undeniably exquisite in the way all deadly things were.

The corner of my lips curled, amusement flickering in my chest."So, this is the infamous Tsesarevna,"I mused aloud, my voice cutting through the silence like the edge of a knife."I must admit, you are quite the sight."

Carefully, I pulled something from my coat—a small bundle wrapped in cloth. I unwrapped it just enough to reveal what lay within.

"Do you know what these are?"I asked, tilting my head."Pancakes. I hear you used to like them."

I took a step forward, slow, deliberate, offering the bundle."Consider it a gift. A gesture of goodwill."

And then, I waited, watching the frost bloom on her hands like delicate lacework spun by a patient predator.