The cold was no longer a physical sensation; it had become a living entity, a predator gnawing at the marrow of her bones. Cinder hung suspended against the rough, unforgiving bark of the ancient pine, her wrists bound so tightly that she had long since lost the ability to feel her fingertips. The thick, abrasive hemp rope bit deep into her neck and waist, keeping her upright in a grotesque display of public execution.
Around her, the world was a canvas of absolute, indifferent white. The winter forest was silent, save for the low, haunting moan of the wind weaving through the snow-laden branches. Against this endless sea of frost and ice, Cinder was a glaring, violent anomaly. She wore a long-sleeved, vintage-style dress of deep, crimson red. It was a garment meant for a parlor, for warmth and safety, not for the brutal wilderness. Now, torn at the hem and stiff with freezing moisture, the red fabric stood out like a fresh, gaping wound against the snow—a beacon of tragedy.
Her head lolled to the side. Her skin, usually pale, had taken on a translucent, bluish-gray pallor. A thin trail of semi-frozen blood tracked from her nostril down to her cracked lips, a stark contrast to the porcelain of her cheeks. She was slipping away, her consciousness fragmenting into abstract dreams of warmth.
A sound broke the stillness. A soft, heavy crunching of snow.
Cinder lacked the strength to open her eyes, but she felt a warm, damp puff of air against her thigh. A baby black bear, separated from its mother and driven by an innocent, hungry curiosity, stood on its hind legs. It sniffed at the crimson fabric of her dress, its small, wet nose nudging her frozen leg. In her fading mind, Cinder thought it was a dog. She thought she was home.
Then, a roar shattered the silence. It wasn't the roar of a beast, but of a man pushed to the absolute brink.
"Cinder!"
The name tore through the freezing air, rough and desperate. The baby bear dropped to all fours, spooked by the sudden vibration, and scrambled away into the dense thicket of white pines.
Footsteps approached, heavy, frantic, and violently fast, churning up the powder. Noah Red Elk ran as if he were trying to outrun death itself. He was a terrifying vision of wilderness survival: a tall, powerfully built Native American man clad in a thick, heavy wolf-fur coat over a navy-blue woolen tunic. His dark hair was pulled back tightly into a top-knot, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles jumped beneath his wind-burned skin.
He slid to a halt on his knees, sending a spray of icy powder into the air. He didn't hesitate. His dark eyes darted over her broken form, assessing the damage in a fraction of a second. He leaned in, his face inches from hers, feeling the faintest wisp of mist escape her parted lips.
"She is breathing," he muttered to himself, the words a frantic prayer.
His right hand snapped to his leather belt, drawing a heavy, serrated hunting knife. With a swift, brutal upward motion, he severed the thick rope binding her waist. Then, carefully but quickly, he reached up and sliced through the noose around her neck.
The moment the tension snapped, Cinder’s body gave way. She collapsed forward like a felled tree, completely devoid of motor control.
Noah dropped the knife into the snow and caught her, wrapping his massive, fur-clad arms around her frail form. He dragged her down gently into the snowbank. The impact shocked Cinder’s system. Her eyes flew open—wide, terrified, and unseeing. She gasped, a horrible, rattling sound as freezing oxygen rushed back into her oxygen-starved lungs. She clutched at her chest, her fingers weakly grasping the crimson fabric of her dress, coughing and choking on the air that was giving her life.