It was cold here.
It always had been.
The wind carved through the world like invisible blades, sharp enough to flay exposed skin raw, while snow descended endlessly from the heavens like drifting arrows loosed by some indifferent god.
The air was thin.
The world itself had vanished beneath an endless blanket of white.
To remain here too long beneath the howling winds meant death for most.
But most was not everyone.
There were those the winter chill could never touch.
Children born from this merciless mother who called the cold her embrace and demanded suffering as tribute for survival.
Winter was cold.
But snow was warm.
At least, that was how she remembered it.
Buried beneath layers of frost, she felt something dangerously close to comfort.
It was the only place where her battered and injured body had once stopped hurting.
This snow was home.
Perhaps this place was very much like her father.
She was used to it.
Because she was one of its children.
