Being thrown to the wolves is a death sentence.
Adalia knows that all too well, since she witnessed her own father being slaughtered in that same unmerciful way.
Living life as a meek slave in a kingdom full of royals, Adalia has no rights and is tr...
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The land was vast. Empty and barren, just like the souls that lived in Winterfest. The dark, gloomy outline of the castle was visible through the misty fog that hung in the air like a white sheet.
The stillness, the serenity of the winter wonderland was coming to an end. It all started with a whisper. A gust of wind was what it was, nothing more than a faint voice as the spirits wove themselves through the branches. The sound progressed to the trickle of water, the drops of rain. The raging river, the coming storm. The coming storm that shook the earth with mighty thunder.
Only, it wasn't thunder. It wasn't rain nor was it a river. It was something that entailed death. It was a dark lullaby that was sung by fate.
It was the coming war.
It started with the gentle shaking of the earth, the subtle vibrating of the ground. Pebbles and bits of snow were quaking just slightly, so slightly, in fact, that if one did not look closely they wouldn't notice it at all. But the shaking became more intense, birthing something much more sinister for those who stood with the queen.
The gentle shaking turned into violent vibrations. A choir of shouts and hollers were heard, the voices echoed and boomed across the empty, frozen meadows.
The villagers turned their heads to the meadow that surrounded the city.
And that's when they saw it.
Through the fog, they could see dozens of dark silhouettes bursting forth from the treeline that stood proud and tall behind them. The people of Winterfest were thrown into a frenzy, not knowing whether the approaching army was friend or foe.
The earth shook as the army approached its destination, many of the villagers lost their footing as they tried to flee from the merciless hooves belonging to the horses. Those that did foolishly stop to observe the scene took in the appearance of the attackers.
They were bathed in the light of the rising sun and clothed in thick furs and various other traditional garments for war. Swords were drawn, boasting their deadly intent, and on their shoulders, bows and arrows hung.
Some rode on horses, horses of black and grey and stallions of white. Their long, curly manes whipped through the wind and their tales were flared out. The muscles bulged and flexed beneath their skin and their breath sounded like a raging river.
Sheets of ice shattered beneath their pounding hooves. It sounded as if they were walking on glass, breaking glass that symbolized the brokenness of the city.
It was a stunning sight to see such massive, powerful beasts in flight. How could such large, muscular animals propel themselves through the air as if they were a mere feather? How could they gather their legs and run so gracefully, even amid the stress and turmoil?
Magnificent and entrancing couldn't even begin to describe what they and their riders looked like, and it would be all the more glorious if they weren't running towards their doom.
