The iron-wrought gates of the mountain castle groan against the wind, their frost-bitten scrollwork biting into the palms of Amara’s woollen gloves. Beyond them, the fortress rises like a jagged crown of black basalt against the bruised purple of the dusk. Snow falls thick and silent, coating her eyelashes and the heavy satchel containing the few memories she didn't leave in the valley. She doesn't tremble from the cold; she trembles because the path behind her is already vanishing under a white shroud.
She presses her forehead against the freezing metal, the scent of ancient stone and cedar-smoke drifting from the courtyard. In the village, they call this a death sentence, but to Amara, it is the only exit left. She has placed her name on the tribute scroll not as a sacrifice, but as a passenger seeking a different kind of end. The silence of the mountain is absolute, broken only by the rhythmic thrum of her own pulse.
A massive shadow detaches from the archway, heavy footfalls crunching the snow as it strides into the lantern light.
