Chapter 5: The Hunter’s Gambit

The cold air bit my lungs as I burst through the servants’ entrance, the iron door slamming against the stone wall with a clang that echoed through the night. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat that drowned out the whispers of the forest. The white glove. The voice. *Good girl.* The words were a brand, searing into my memory with a heat that had nothing to do with the winter wind.

I pressed my back against the rough-hewn wall, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. The rose blooms in winter. It was a code, a warning. Someone knew. Someone was watching. And they were pleased.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by the baying of hounds. I snapped my head toward the sound. Torchlight flickered through the skeletal trees, a swarm of gold and shadow converging on the eastern edge of the estate. The midnight hunt. Damien’s challenge.

I had no choice. If I ran, I was weak. If I refused, I was a coward. And in this court of wolves, both meant death. I pushed off the wall and sprinted toward the gathering.

The clearing blazed with light. A dozen riders sat astride restless stallions, their breath misting in the cold. In the center, Damien sat upon a black warhorse, its coat gleaming like polished obsidian. He wore a leather hunting jacket, his silver hair loose, catching the firelight like spun moonbeams. He looked every inch the predator he was.

“Ah, the little rose decides to join us,” he called out, a cruel smile curving his lips. The other nobles laughed, a chorus of sharp, mocking notes. “I feared you’d gone to hide in the kitchens.”

I walked into the circle of torchlight, my chin held high. My dress was impractical—a gown of deep crimson that pooled at my feet—but I had managed to snatch a hunting knife from the armory. It was hidden in my sleeve, its weight a small comfort. “I wouldn’t miss the fun, Your Highness.”

His eyes gleamed, dark and unreadable. “Then let’s make it interesting. The stag has been wounded and released. The first to bring it down wins.” He paused, letting the silence stretch. “And the last to return… will be fed to the hounds.”

A ripple of nervous laughter. I felt the weight of his gaze settle on me, heavy as stone. This was a game, and I was the piece he intended to sacrifice.

The horn sounded. The hounds surged forward, and the riders broke into a thunderous gallop. I ran. Not for a horse—I had none—but for the shadows, using my small stature and knowledge of the forest to my advantage. The stag’s trail was fresh, marked by broken branches and smears of dark blood on the snow.

I moved swiftly, my footsteps silent. The sounds of the hunt grew distant, a cacophony of shouts and barking that faded into the night. I found the stag huddled in a thicket, its sides heaving, eyes wild with terror. The arrow protruding from its flank gleamed with venom.

“Shh,” I whispered, approaching slowly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The stag’s ears twitched. It was too weak to run, too terrified to trust. I knelt, reaching for the arrow. If I could remove it, maybe I could help it escape. It was a foolish, reckless gesture—but the rose blooms in winter. I had to be something more than a pawn.

The snap of a twig was my only warning. I spun, knife drawn, just as a figure lunged from the darkness. I dodged, the blade grazing my shoulder, slicing through the fabric of my dress. The man—one of Damien’s guards—grinned, his teeth yellowed in the torchlight.

“The prince wants your head,” he said, advancing.

I circled, my heart pounding. “Then come take it.”

He lunged again. I sidestepped, slashing at his wrist. He howled, dropping his sword. But his hand shot out, grabbing my ankle. I fell, the breath knocked from my lungs. He loomed over me, a dagger raised high.

A roar split the night. A black shape barreled through the undergrowth, slamming into the guard. I scrambled backward, watching in disbelief as Damien, his face twisted in fury, drove his sword through the man’s chest. The guard crumpled, lifeless.

Damien stood over him, breathing hard, blood splattered across his cheek. His eyes found mine, and for a moment, something flickered there—not cold, not cruel. Something raw. Unreadable.

“You were supposed to run,” he said, his voice rough.

“I don’t run,” I replied, getting to my feet.

He stepped closer, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand reached out, and I tensed—but instead of striking, his fingers brushed the torn fabric at my shoulder. His touch was surprisingly gentle.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just a scratch.”

“It won’t be,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “if you keep defying me.”

But his eyes said something else. They lingered on my face, searching for something I couldn’t name. And then, he pulled away, the mask sliding back into place.

“The stag is mine,” he said, turning toward the thicket. “And so are you.”

But as he walked away, I saw it. A flicker of something—respect? Curiosity?—in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw tightened. He had saved me. The king of ice had thawed, just for a moment.

And that was more dangerous than any hunt.

I turned to follow, but a rustle in the trees stopped me. A whisper, soft as silk, carried on the wind: “You did well, little rose. Now, let’s see if you can bloom.”

My blood ran cold. The white glove. The voice. And when I looked up, Damien was staring at me from across the clearing, his expression shadowed by the dying torchlight.

He had heard it too.