The blizzard had arrived like a beast in the night.
Now, all of Windshire lay buried in white. Beneath the cold glow of the evening light, roofs sagged beneath the weight of snow, and skeletal trees reached their brittle arms toward a pale sky that had forgotten the color blue. Frost clung to every windowpane like ghostly fingerprints, and silence pressed against the village like a suffocating shroud, broken only by the wind's endless howl.
Crimson grunted as she dug her wooden shovel into the snowdrift outside the cottage. Her fingers, red and raw, barely responded, and the wooden handle bit into her palms. She lifted another heavy scoop into a rusted metal pail, the ice within clinking like fragile glass.
Each exhale came out as a plume of mist, vanishing quickly into the frozen air. Her breath fogged the edge of her hood, which hung limply over her tangled red curls, half-frozen. The threadbare cloak she wore had long since given up trying to keep her warm, it was more of a memory now, a ghost of comfort.
She gave one final shove, filling the pail to the brim with snow, and hauled it back toward the door with both arms straining. Her boots crunched over the packed frost. The wind tugged at her like cold fingers.
Inside the cottage, the cold followed her. It lived there, in the creaking floorboards and the thin walls that did little to block it out. She kicked the door closed behind her, sending a small flurry of snow scattering across the ground.
The hearth still crackled with a weak flame. It was the only thing fighting the blizzard, and losing.
Crimson set the pail beside it. Soon, the snow would melt, and the water would be drinkable. It would taste faintly of rust and ash, but that was the best she could offer.
She cast a glance toward the cot in the corner. Her grandmother lay curled beneath layers of mismatched fabric, rags more than blankets. She was sleeping for now, face calm, lips slightly parted. In sleep, she looked like her old self. Almost.
It had been three nights since the 'incident'. Since the choking. Since the cloth around Crimson's neck had dragged her halfway to death. Since her grandmother had called her a witch.
Crimson's neck still bore the red mark, dark against her pale skin. She'd hidden it beneath her collar, not that anyone asked. No one cared. Just another peasant girl with too much hair and too little coin.
She crouched beside the hearth and rubbed her hands over the weak flames, rotating her fingers slowly. The heat stung as it reached her frozen skin. Her joints throbbed from hours in the cold.
'Just a little longer,' she told herself. 'Just until the water melts.'
Her eyes flicked again to her grandmother.
Crimson hadn't slept properly in days. She'd been keeping watch, afraid that next time, her grandmother might wake while she was asleep… and finish what she'd started. Or worse, wander out into the storm and freeze like so many others had before.
Windshire was dying slowly, suffocated by cold, famine, and fear.
Crimson let her hands fall into her lap. The silence gnawed at her now, louder than the wind outside.
Her stomach twisted, a sharp ache curling through her midsection. She pressed a hand against it and shut her eyes. It'd been a full day since she'd last eaten, half a bruised apple and a chunk of stale bread. That was all she could spare. The food they had left had to last the winter, or as much of it as possible. There was no telling when the markets would reopen… or if they ever would.
She sighed, glancing at the hearth. The snow in the pail had finally melted, steam rising faintly from the water now warmed by the fire. Her fingers throbbed from the cold and her back ached from shoveling, but she ignored it.
That was when the knock came.
'Knock'
It wasn't loud, but it was sharp, deliberate. It made her flinch.
Her heart skipped. No one knocked during a blizzard. No one should be out. She turned toward the door, frozen. Her first instinct was to reach for the small knife they kept hidden beneath a cracked floorboard.
She remembered the village head's last warning.
"Keep your doors locked after sunset. No strangers."
Crimson stood, slowly. Her legs felt heavy beneath her, as if they too were urging her to stay put. She took a steadying breath, then stepped toward the door, placing her hand against the rough wood. The cold seeped through it like death.
She hesitated. And then, with a breathless exhale, she unlatched the lock and pulled it open.
Standing in the snow, wearing a heavy brown cloak lined with fur and a warm smile, was Cedric.
His light brown hair curled slightly under his hood, and the tips of his ears were pink from the cold, but he didn't seem to feel it. His boots looked polished, and the fabric of his tunic peeked out from beneath the cloak stitched and well-kept. Expensive. He always looked like he belonged in a better village than Windshire.
"Evening," he said, with a charming lift of his brows. "Hope I didn't frighten you."
She stared, the cold wind biting at her cheeks. "What… are you doing here?"
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Bit forward, I know. But I wanted to invite you to dinner."
Crimson blinked, certain she'd misheard him.
"Dinner?" she repeated flatly.
Cedric nodded. "Yes. My mother's servant cooked far more than needed... again... and we'd hate to waste it. I figured, rather than let it spoil, maybe someone else could enjoy it."
Someone else. You, his tone implied.
She frowned. What was he playing at?
"No one's out," she said slowly. "You shouldn't be either."
"I know." He smiled again. That same boyish smile that always felt… rehearsed. "But I figured you might need something warm tonight."
She opened her mouth to decline. She didn't like pity. She didn't like charity. And most of all, she didn't trust kindness from the powerful. But as she parted her lips to speak...
Her stomach betrayed her.
It growled loudly enough to be heard between them.
Cedric's smile widened slightly, but he didn't laugh. He said nothing at all.
Crimson bit her lip, glancing back into the cottage. The door to her grandmother's room was shut, a sliver of light leaking from beneath it. The old woman hadn't stirred once since the snow began falling hours ago.
A warm meal.
Just one. It could make the cold bearable, even for a night. She could bring something back for her grandmother, something soft, easy to chew.
She turned back toward him, inhaling sharply.
She said, voice cautious. "Only for a little while."
Cedric nodded once, satisfied. "Of course."
She stepped outside, pulling her cloak tighter around her. The wind stung her cheeks as they walked side by side down the snow-choked path.
"Your cheeks are flushed," he commented softly. "You've been out all day again, haven't you?"
She didn't answer.
"Crimson," he added, more gently. "You don't have to keep living like this."
She looked at him sideways. "Don't I?"
His mouth opened slightly as if to say something, something noble but then he shut it, turning back to the path.
The home was larger, warmer… homely in a way that felt foreign to her.
Crimson stood awkwardly at the entrance beside Cedric, her eyes adjusting to the warm glow of the candle-lit interior. The scent of roasted meat, seasoned potatoes, and something subtly sweet, perhaps honeyed carrots, drifted toward her. Her stomach tightened with need. Gods, it smelled divine.
The wooden floors were polished, and thick rugs stretched across the sitting area. The walls were decorated with faded tapestries and a few oil portraits, past village heads, she presumed.
Cedric led her to the dining room. The long table gleamed, set neatly with mismatched but elegant cutlery. Silver, perhaps. At the head of the table sat the village head, eyes fixed on a parchment he read with quiet intensity. His wife, regal and soft-faced, sat across from him, and next to her, their daughter, a younger girl not much older than twelve, busy chewing on a slice of warm bread.
A servant in a simple brown uniform moved gracefully around them, placing steaming dishes down with delicate hands.
The woman looked up first and smiled when she saw her. "Ah, there you are," she said warmly. "Come now, don't just stand in the cold. Join us."
Crimson hesitated a moment before offering a quick bow. "Thank you… ma'am."
Her eyes flicked to the food, then to the faces. None of them looked malicious, but something about the kindness here felt… 'off'. Like it had been prepared in advance. Measured.
She sat down beside the girl, who peeked at her with shy curiosity. Cedric took the seat across from her.
"Well," said the wife as the servant began to ladle stew into bowls. "You've had such a rough season, haven't you, dear? I told Cedric we had to invite you. The village must stick together."
"Especially in times like these," added the girl brightly.
Crimson gave a polite nod. "Thank you. "
The stew was placed before her, rich, thick, filled with meat and vegetables. Her stomach nearly wept at the sight. She muttered a quiet thanks and began to eat, careful not to appear desperate, even as the warmth filled her from the inside out.
Dinner passed with light conversation. The girl chatted about their dog, the cold, her dreams of visiting the South one day. The mother made soft remarks about the village's state, tutting about how poorly the market was doing. Cedric barely spoke, though he occasionally stole glances at Crimson.
They were 'too' kind. It was all too perfect. The laughter too smooth. The warmth too staged.
That was when the village head finally set down the parchment.
His voice cut cleanly through the soft clatter of spoons and small talk.
"Crimson."
She looked up mid-chew, her jaw pausing.
He didn't smile.
"There was… a stranger. Seen in Windshire three days ago."