The world was nothing but red and white.Red from the blood freezing on his face. White from the snow blizzard piling around his small frame.Mikael's breath came in sharp, desperate gasps—hah...hah...hah—each one a knife of frozen air in his lungs.Blood from the gash across his forehead had crusted over his left eye, and every few steps he had to stop and scrape it away with numb fingers just to see where he was going.Hah...hah...His left shoulder screamed where the crossbow bolt had torn through muscle and sinew before he'd managed to pull it free. The makeshift bandage he'd torn from his shirt was already soaked through, bright red against the endless white around him. Each heartbeat sent fresh warmth trickling down his arm.Behind him, the orange glow of his burning village made the storm clouds look like a false dawn. The clash of steel and the roar of combat magic still echoed across the frozen fields, but fainter now. More distant. The screaming had stopped an hour ago.That was the worst part—the silence where voices used to be.Hah...hah...hah...Mikael stumbled forward through snow that came up past his knees, his bare feet so numb he could barely feel them anymore. The wind howled around him like something alive and hungry, driving ice crystals into his face hard enough to draw blood."Anyone," he whispered to the storm, his voice barely more than a breath. "Please. Anyone."The mill. He had to reach the mill. Mister Henry might still be there. Henry who'd shown him how to whittle duck calls and always saved the best apples from his orchard. Henry who'd fought in the border wars and knew about wounds and healing.If Henry was still alive.Don't think about that. Just walk. Just—Something moved in the white curtain ahead.Mikael's heart lurched—with hope, terror, he couldn't tell which anymore. The shape was tall, (...)