“Halt!” Yells the guard as he steps out from his heated booth into the early morning fog of the Crown Isles. “State your name and purpose.”

  The two women on horseback look to each other and then to the young man.

  “I am Faerthryne.” She gestures to herself with a gloved hand. The guard before her is not who he should be. “I am here to attend H?rfende at the college. Please be a dear and fetch Arn Scyldwyr for me.”

  The guard looks the woman up and down, refusing to believe that the woman in her late twenties before him is the Lady of the Midwinter Fires. Now, he has never met or seen Faerthryne in person before, and the depictions he had seen when he was younger presented her as a small brunette and not the tall blonde who was on horseback before him. He opens his mouth to further question the imposter, but the girl with her speaks first.

  “And I am Morziwayn.” With her good arm, she reaches for the brim of her hat, intending to tip it to the young guard, but falling short, nearly knocking the brown hat from her head. “As with Faerthryne, I am here to attend H?rfende at the College of the Third Moon.”

  No, neither of these women is who they say they are. He had been in training when Morziwayn had come through not more than three maidens ago and had watched her enter the Crown—this woman... this girl was far too young to be Morziwayn. He blows his whistle, and a large iron portcullis drops from the tower behind, blocking the path forward.

  Faerthryne’s horse rears at the loud crash, and the guard backs up.

  Faerthryne regains her balance and quickly does her best to calm her grey horse. She shifts her focus to the guard. Her cold blue eyes glare daggers at the guard as she begins verbally chastising him. “You fool; are you new? Every year—EVERY YEAR—Morziwayn and I come to the college. Do they not brief you? I rode a half-day by lantern light to be here on time only to be nearly thrown from my horse upon my arrival. Fetch—”

  The man places his hand on the pommel of his sword. “SILENCE!” He yells. “You will not speak to a guard of the Crown Isle in such a manner.” His breath becomes visible before him. “Dismount and walk backward towards me.” His sword arm shivers—simply the morning weather.

  Morziwayn sits silently, in no shape to argue with the clearly ignorant young man.

  “I will do nothing of the sort, and you will not interrupt me again. You will fetch me Arn Scyldwyr this instant and not a moment more!”

  The guard tries to pull his sword, only for his fingers to not respond—too cold to close themselves around the hilt. He lifts his hands to his face, looking at his fingers as red sores slowly puff and turn white. He tries to blow on the fingers, attempting to warm them up, but his frigid breath does nothing.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Did I stutter?” Faerthryne was in no mood to deal with this fool; she was tired, hungry, and simply sick of the saddle. “You clearly do not know who you are speaking with and are too incompetent to figure it out. Fetch. Me. Arn. Scyldwyr.” Her eyes wide as she hisses, watching the fool’s nose and cheeks turn rosy from his own personal winter.

  The young guard backs up further before turning and running into the tower. He attempts to speak to the three men coming in response to his whistle, but his words are too slurred to be comprehensible.

  “I’m very sorry, ladies; what might this be about?” A guard, more decorated than the two who flank him, speaks. He instantly recognizes the Faerthryne on her grey horse. “Oh... hmmm...” He runs his hand down his face. “I’m sorry about that, Lady Faerthryne. RAISE THE GATE!”

  Faerthryne glares at the man in annoyance. “Are you Arn Scyldwyr?”

  “No, but you may pass.” He steps back, bowing to the women. The younger of the two smiles a gap-toothed smile at him from under her pointed hat. He does not recognize her; he assumes she must be Morziwayn—as who else would be riding with Faerthryne at this time of year—but her clothes are ripped, torn, covered in dirt, and frankly smell as though they had been stripped from a corpse. He has no need to push for answers; if Faerthryne wants this ragamuffin to enter the city, the ragamuffin will enter the city. “I’m sorry about the inco—”

  Faerthryne inhales sharply through her nose and speaks through gritted teeth. “If I have to request the presence of Arn Scyldwyr one more time—you will feel your blood freeze in your veins.”

  The two guards with the man quickly sprint off into the tower and return momentarily with Faerthryne’s heavily sought-after head officer of the west bridge.

  “I see the guard has started trying to polish the ordure of the commoner’s district?” Faerthryne says to Arn. Only a few years older than her body, she can see the grey hairs starting to show in Arn’s undercut.

  “Was that really necessary, Y?l—Faerthryne?” Arn asks. “You didn’t have to give the new guy frostbite.”

  “He threatened to draw his sword on me—is a woman not allowed to defend herself? Why were you not here to greet me?” Arn had always been at the west gate every year on this day—he had requested it.

  “I’ve been promoted; I’m now in charge of the west bridge.”

  “That’s wonderful; the only excuse I would expect for you to not be here to greet me. Did Daddy pull some strings?” She pauses. “Get your horse; you are our escort to the college.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot spend the day with you this year.” Arn’s voice saddens as he looks towards the ground.

  “Lies. Who are you?” Faerthryne points to the guard whose posse had abandoned him.

  “I am Nolth T?mbwyr, second in charge to Arn.” He bows deeply.

  “Excellent. Arn tell him he is to fill your boots for the day.”

  “I—”

  “If the next words out of your mouth are not ‘I’m leaving you in charge for the day,’ the snow will begin over your father’s estate, and it will stay there for the whole winter, localized entirely in your yard.” Her tone is icy, trying to slide the man along so she can get on with her day—the priestesses eat at 08:00, and she will not be late.

  Arn turns to Nolth, repeating Faerthryne’s words verbatim. “I’m leaving you in charge for the day.”

  “Thank you; get your horse.”

  Arn does as instructed, and the three head for the college.