1008.
The Eighth Year of the Golden Age.
Beyond the Shuddering Wood.
Asura.
She was going to die.
She was going to be frozen once more, trapped in winters unforgiving embrace.
And so, she ran.
She bent her head low against the wind, whimpers ripping from her throat as the onslaught of snow and wind tugged at her cloak and gown. She narrowed her eyes against the assault that had turned the soft snowflakes into blades of ice that pierced through her heavy furs, chilling flesh to the bone of any caught unawares by the storm.
Branches swayed and groaned in the wind, their great trunks protesting the storm that raged as it steadily grew darker – silver fading into the deep blue of night.
Through narrowed eyes she surveyed the trail once more, raising a leather-covered arm to protect her eyes from the icicles that threatened to pierce, to tear at any exposed flesh. It was the Everwinter, she knew.
An old and dangerous magic that transformed the land.
A cursed winter.
Another one.
Terrified, she had fled when those first clouds had appeared in the sky, her friends had not been so lucky, caught unawares on the banks of the river and snap-frozen. She'd known what was coming and though her magic pulled her north, the memory of her mother forced her to flee to the south. She had been running for what felt like days, but the forest stretched before her still, the trees were thick and old, with twisted trunks and twisted roots that had once been filled with birdsong and laughter in the brilliant sunshine.
And so, she pressed on.
Another swell in the storm.
She stopped, crouched low.
She should not have left her small river.
But she could not live frozen beneath the ice for another hundred years.
Not when the witch had come again, pulling at her mind with the sirens-song that was her magic.
She would not, she could not serve a tyrant.
In the darkness devoid of birdsong, there was a musky scent – it was an acrid stench, it burnt through the scent of pine and snow. And then she heard them, the low, reverberating growls. Wolves, stalking their prey – servants of the Ice Queen. The number, she couldn't place, trying to discern one growl from the next. But she could not, not with the wind howling just as much as they did.
And she knew the moment they were aware of her, for those growls changed. Were-wolves, half-shifted with glinting talons and gnashing maws. Silver eyes, cursed eyes, glowed in the dark, each set locking on her form as they moved. They did not look Narnian, crouched low and snarling. With bodies so thin she could see the outline of their ribs and with blood dripping from their chins, they looked like something out of a horror tale.
It was as if the night stilled around them as river-blue met silver.
There was no awareness in those silver eyes, nothing but hunger, nothing but instinct. There was no recognition – as if it was moon-lust that gripped them, though the moon did not yet shine in all its glory.
Six of them.
A hunting pack.
Asura growled again. A warning. One she knew they would not heed.
Lightning flashed.
The wolves did not flee, their teeth bared and dripping, eyes flashing. And she waited, waiting for the wolves to press the attack, her balance perfect on the balls of her feet.
Snow crunched.
The wolf leaped at her.
And when she finally found her way out of the snow, battered and bleeding it was by four figures on horseback. Each of them younger than herself.
The Kings and Queens of Narnia.
But she felt safety in their gazes, and warmth.
And she knew she would be safe.
For now.