The snow fell in silence, thick and endless, coating the pine forest in a blanket of ghost-white stillness. Wind howled through the bare branches like distant mourning. Prince Mathew moved through it like a shadow, footsteps near soundless, bow gripped in one hand, an arrow already nocked in the other.

He didn’t like being this close to enemy lines—his magic-or rather, the absence of it-made him a liability to his own soldiers. So he worked alone, as always, slipping through the frostbitten woods like a ghost of war, eyes sharp, heart steady.

He never expected her.

A figure stepped into the clearing as if summoned from the snow itself-pale, ethereal, lethal. She didn’t carry a weapon. She didn’t need one. He recognized her instantly.

The Snow Siren. The White Death.

And she was moving toward him, slow, elegant, deliberate. Bare hands gloveless despite the cold. Skin like ivory frost. Hair like moonlit snow. Her expression unreadable-neither rage nor remorse-only focus. Unwavering.

She didn’t speak. Didn’t hesitate.

She reached for him.

Mathew moved to dodge, but she was faster than he expected. Her fingertips grazed his exposed neck. Just barely. He sucked in a breath. That should’ve been the end. That touch should have scorched his nerves, should have melted his blood from the inside out.

But it didn’t.

She froze, eyes widening. Her breath caught-sharp, like a gasp in a cathedral.

Nothing. No pain. No death. No effect.

Her power had failed.

She stepped back in confusion, arm trembling slightly, looking at her hand like it had betrayed her.

Realization hit him like ice water.

She tried to kill me. No words. No battle cry. Just a quiet execution. And she failed-because of him.

Mathew reacted before he could think.

The arrow flew.

A sharp cry escaped her lips as the shaft lodged in her shoulder, spinning her to the ground. Not a kill shot. He hadn’t aimed for one. She writhed in the snow, white stained red beneath her. Not screaming. Just breathing-pained, shallow, human.

He stood over her, bow lowered, chest heaving. She glared up at him, teeth clenched.

"Do it," she hissed, breath fogging in the winter air. "Finish it."

But he didn’t.

Instead, he knelt beside her, his brows furrowed not in triumph-but in guilt.

"I’m not dead," he said quietly. "And should be. Because of your power."

She turned her face away from him, jaw set in fury and something else-fear? Shame?

Mathew stared at her hand, still streaked with frost. Still deadly... to anyone else.

But not to him.

He didn’t know what it meant yet. He only knew one thing for certain:

He couldn't leave her here.

Fear struck her chest as she passed out, leaving her fate to him.

She woke in his tent, wrapped in furs and heat and confusion. Her shoulder was bandaged. Her hands were bound-not tightly, just enough. A fire crackled nearby. He sat across from her, stirring a pot of something warm. The bow leaned against the wall within reach.

"You should have killed me," she said softly, throat dry.

"I almost did," he replied. "But I don’t like killing people who look scared when they fall."

Silence.

He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t demand answers. Just watched her with those unreadable storm-gray eyes. As if he wasn’t just trying to keep her alive-but understand why she’d tried to end him.

He handed her a small cup of water. His fingers brushed hers.

Still no pain.

And for the first time in years, she didn’t know whether to be afraid... or relieved.