Wind bit into Xenia's face with every step she took across the ice. Night was approaching, and the dismal, faded glow that had barely illuminated her way through the storm was disappearing with every passing minute. She loathed superstition, but through the blur of the storm it truly felt as though the goddess had swallowed up the sun. She shuddered.

'I have to keep moving,' she thought, and trudged forward. Despite her wounded shoulder, she threw her left arm up over her face to shield her eyes from the stinging snow. In her right she dragged the sled that carried what was left of Serral.

Part of her wished that the ice would make its way past her skin and numb her to the bone. She could barely stand the ache of the cold—even her teeth felt it. Every tear that dripped down her face froze before it could move past her cheeks. She was sure that anyone looking across the lake would think her a vengeful ghost. Perhaps she was one.

‘Vengeance, huh?’ Her laugh came out like a dry whistle. Not even she knew what she'd do once she reached Astana—if she reached him at all.