It was winter. It was wartime. It was snowing. There may have been other factors that mattered in the, but none so much as these. It was bitterly cold—the kind of cold that left beads of ice frozen to your eyelashes, that cut the tip of your nose like a knife, that left those unfortunate enough to be without shelter frozen to the ground like gruesome sculptures. As cruel fate would have it, the worst of the storm was right along the Ilaria and Zanthar border, where the worst of the fighting was centered.
The snow and fog whirled into a whiteout so thick you couldn't see your boots. Suddenly, there was no war. There were no soldiers, no villagers. There were only people, desperate to survive and desperately lost.
Captain Caspian Levan of Zanthar had been alone when the storm hit— and he was certainly alone now. Still, he wasn't terribly worried; he had been trained for this, had been through worse. He knew what to do: burrow into the snow, hunker down, and hope for the best. There were no other options.
Hands out in front of him and stepping lightly, Caspian felt for trees, for a cliff wall, anything that would strengthen his shelter and his chances of survival. What he felt with his leather-gloved fingertips, however, was no stone or branch. It was slim and soft, and yelped with fear at the sudden contact, tripping over its own boots and landing hard on the snowy earth.
Caspian knelt down and found the creature's shoulders, feeling down to small, ungloved hands and up to a cold, heart-shaped face framed in a furry hood. A woman. Odd that she was so far from the camp—she must have gotten lost in the sudden storm.
"Don't be afraid," he said loudly, trying to make his voice heard over the roaring winds. "I'm Captain Levan. Stay with me; we'll make it through this."
The figure was silent, but took his outstretched hand and let herself be bundled into the crook of his arm. More body heat was always better, he knew. But if he didn't get the girl into shelter within minutes, she'd be dead. She was too petite, too ill dressed for this weather. She'd likely lose fingers already.
Caspian knelt to the ground and dug into the firmest snow-bank, feeling his new ally's firm grip on his shoulder as he dug. To his surprise, she knelt down beside him and started to dig too, her little bare fingers blue against the white snow. Caspian batted her hands away, but the girl was determined; every time he swatted her arms away, she bounced right back and tried to dig. Her efforts were futile—the thickest part of her arms were no larger than Caspian's wrists—but something about her determination was endearing to him. The girl was little, but she was fierce.
When his makeshift igloo was sufficiently large, Caspian pushed the girl into the shelter and then crawled in himself. Once inside, he heaped snow against the opening, shutting out the biting wind and snow. Within seconds, it became eerily still and quiet. Caspian took a candle from his pack—he had a dozen, not to mention a lamp—and lit it, wanting to take stock of the shelter and his newfound accomplice.
The girl was curled into a ball against the makeshift wall, rubbing her pale blue hands together and wincing. Even shivering and frostbitten, she was lovely—a good decade younger than his thirty years, and the kind of pretty that could stop a man in his tracks. Even a man as stoic as Caspian. Her hair was a dark, fiery red, twisted around her head in a crown-like braid. Her skin was milk-white and almost impossibly smooth, tinged with lavender at the tip of her pert nose. Her lips were lush and the teeth that were bared as they chattered were perfect white pearls. It was if the sun had never touched her skin, as if illness had never brushed through her body, as if she had never known work or hardship. Her palms were like silk, her fingertips bruised and bloodied where they had tried to help him dig through the frigid snow and ice. Who was she, this dewdrop creature in the midst of a war? She seemed unlikely in every sense of the word.
"What is your name?" he asked, his voice brusque. Commander-like.
The girl slowly blinked her eyes—clear green, like sea glass. She shook her head slightly, looking so hesitant it verged on fearful. It was then that he realized that the cloak she was wearing was deep green. The color worn not by his countrymen, but by those from Ilaria. She had to be one of them. His enemy.
He could tell by her expression that he had deduced her identity. She raised her delicate hands to him, her palms facing outward. As if to show that she had no weapon.
As if a girl like she could be a danger to a man like him.
"What is your name?" he asked again.
"It's Zara." The girl's voice, though heavy with the lilting accent of his enemies, was whisper-soft and sweet as honey. She wasn't shaking anymore, and he knew that wasn't a good sign. It was well below zero outside, and not much warmer within the igloo. He knew she was likely quite frostbitten, not to mention hypothermic, and that if he tossed her back out in the blizzard she'd be dead within minutes.
Because she was an Ilarian, he knew he had the right to take her life. She was a prisoner of war now, really. He didn't have to save her.
But
— a tiny voice in the back of his head sprang to life. More body heat was always better in a storm. If she didn't freeze to death, she'd help keep him warm. He could decide what to do with her afterwards, assuming they survived. As the spoils of war, he could kill her or keep her or sell her as he saw fit. The rules of war were brutal.
"Look," he said. "I'm going to help you, not hurt you. We have a better chance of survival if we stick together through this, do you understand?"
He thought she would be nodding in relief, but instead the girl's large eyes were looking more despondent by the moment. "And after?"
"You're a prisoner. A prisoner of war."
"So you think I belong to you."
"And I'm correct. Are you going to cooperate? Or shall I let you freeze?"
"I'll cooperate." Zara inched towards him. "I'm not sure you can stop the freezing at this point, anyhow." She sobbed a short laugh, the rough sound catching in her chest like gravel against gravel.
"You'll find I'm quite warm," he said, a bit gentler. "I'll go slowly, okay? This is going to hurt a bit." He knelt to the ground and held out his hand. Cautiously, the girl lowered herself to the floor and extended her left foot to him. Her boots were fur-lined, he saw in relief, and likely quite warm. When he pulled off her boot, her pretty foot was pale and cold to the touch, but with no sign of blueness or blackness; her feet would be fine. Her fingertips were the bigger issue.
Caspian pulled off his leather gloves and began to rub her small hands between his large, warm ones. He watched for her wince but she didn't flinch; another bad sign. She should be feeling sharp pricks, a deep ache.
He raised her fists to his mouth, let his warm breath cover her skin. He could feel the smoothness of her wrists against his callused fingertips and again he wondered how such a girl had found herself in the middle of a battleground.
She began to shiver, and he felt the slightest of reliefs when her fingers twitched in pain. She still might not make it. Even wrapped in her thick cloak, she looked so small.
