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Snow Child

T he familiar sensation of fear choked the snow child like the divinity who often claimed his mind choked his dreams—his nightmares .

He was used to her, for she was the embodiment of fear. At least now, his consolation was knowing he would wake up when the sun appeared. At least now, his mind was not her prisoner, even if his sleep was.

Her black eyes shone as bright as the crown abandoned in the room. “Come closer,” she ordered.

His legs moved as they always did—against his will. He had learned not to fight her magic, so he didn’t anymore. Even if the red crystal shackles restrained her naked body to the stone, he wasn’t strong enough to fight her.

He was powerless. He was no one.

“I know you are with her,” she said, stroking his chin with a nail that opened his skin. “Not here, but there.”

Her pale face was impenetrable, his gaze unfocused as he tried not to flinch.

“Tell me, offspring of snow. Tell me what she’s like.”

He felt the impulse to talk. She would make him talk—she always did—but the choice of his words was his.

“Who?” the snow child asked.

“The only one that matters. The one with magic the color of my kin. The one they tried to protect, and the one they will fail to save.”

“She’s patient and brave,” he said. “How much longer will you make her wait?”

The loud laugh of the Cardinal Queen shook the black liquid pooled around them. The liquid was her blood.

“Each of the five spiteful, red-winged ones cursed me with half a century of captivity. I’ve been patient—for over two centuries.” Her nostrils flared, her blood-red lips curling as her grip on his chin tightened. “The days are ticking, my curse almost lifting. Patient she is, and patient she will be, for when I come, her end will come with me.”

When the snow child woke up, the memory of his nightmare was erased. His nose bled once again, and another black streak painted his hair.