The mountains were swallowing the world whole.
What began as a tender snowfall had turned relentless; white upon white, muffling everything. Even the trees seemed tired of standing, their branches heavy and bent under the frost.
Lorraine trudged through the powder, her boots vanishing with every step. The wind clawed at her hood, tugged her braid free. She had wrapped herself in every layer she could find, yet somehow the cold still bit her bones like a vindictive ghost.
As someone from the city, she was not used to this coldness, nor this rough terrain. But she persisted.
The cottage they lived in sat a few slopes down, half-buried under snow. From above, it might have looked like a forgotten grave. And perhaps, to the world, it was.
She stopped to catch her breath and looked around, exhaling through trembling lips. You're Lazira, she told herself. You survived poisons and plots. Surely, you can handle a little snow.
Her husband, meanwhile, was "hunting." Again.
