Page 3 of Traithorn

I stumble in the snow, the coldness suffocating my feet and legs, the snow too deep. I fight to breathe properly, adrenaline fueling my insides like lava that’ll erupt at any moment. Vernon is still holding my hand, dragging me along with him. I’m embarrassed to admit that I wouldn’t have been able to make it without him—he’s always been the one to push me forward rather than drag me down, and support me rather than hate me. The only man with whom I can put my trust.

“Come on, sis. Almost there,” he encourages, and I fight to keep running through the snow, but it’s just so damn fuckingcold.

The sound of an engine rumbles as it approaches, and we rush through the gates just for them to close behind us.

We’re outside the perimeters of the prison, the high walls surrounding the desolate building this far from society.

The car rolls through the road, coming all the closer, its headlights blinking at us and letting us know it is who we expected. I breathe a sigh of relief, my lungs stinging from the cold that seeps through and makes it hard to breathe. Vernon opens the car door and rushes me inside it before getting in himself, then closes the door behind him.

“Just in time,” our contact smirks from the front seat, his wicked eyes glinting in the rearview mirror.

Oh, if only he knew the plans we’ve made. What his ending will be when we’re done.

The car takes off, quicker than the guards and cops manage to get out of the building with the lockdown. They probably thought we’d be locked in by now.

Then we take off to our freedom as our contact hands us our new identities—passports and ID cards. Well and meticulous, looking as real as anything. With his help in more ways than one, we’ll be free.

And now on to the next mission—get our little traitor back.

Chapter 2

DEATH PREVAILED

Isolde

People always try tooutrun death. As if it’s something they can escape.

But death isn’t a chase; it’s a whisper of a shadow, lingering beneath the veil of silvery skies, cloaked in shrouded harmony until it strikes without warning. It’s in the wind, threading through hollow forests. In the arms full of sorrow.

Death is a lover draped in ghostly white.

And still,theywere taken from me too fast.

I glance over my shoulder, noticing that no one is hiding in the mist, even when my skin prickles with the awareness of being watched. The graveyard is empty and vacant, except for the spirits lingering on the sacred soil.

No oneshouldbe there.

They’re all locked away now. They can’t hurt me anymore; I made sure of that.

Yet, under the low-hanging moon, clouds pressing down like a shroud, something is watching. Tombstones form masses of rows around me, headstones buried under the thickness of the rapidly falling snow.

A heartbreaking shudder runs rampant through my veins as the memories resurface, morphing into something lethal and unstoppable—a force so fierce, it could obliterate anyone who dares lay a finger on me. If only that would stop the horrors thrumming through me, or the memories plaguing my every waking second.

A piercing scream rattles the surroundings, spearing into my heart as if it might stop beating entirely. Steps faltering, echoes of the past filter through my mind. It sounds too fucking real.

Suddenly, it’s as if that’s all I can see: the blood soaking the snow before me, tainting the purity of winter with something violent. Irreversible.

With a blink, it disappears as quickly as it came.

Only my imagination. It’s all in the past.

The old, weathered sign is barely visible through the weight of snow, the words welcoming me deeper into the graveyard. Snow crunches underneath my boots as I pull my black coat tighter, clutching a single black rose.

It’s the end of February, and our small town of Vexglade has transformed into a Winter Wonderland, but not the kind you’d wish for. Streets are choked with frost, and the air is frozen in a time where only eerie stillness exists outside the fires of homes.

It’s a far cry from the winters of the past. Centuries ago, they told tales around the bonfire of the witches who once called this place home, and the curses they wove into the land—vexes that clung to the town like a second skin. It’d explain the cold that never truly leaves, or the darkness creeping across the horizon as early as four p.m., even in the summer. It’s just folklore, they say, but sometimes, it feels far too real. Especially with the snow that came as early as October, with the sense of foreboding lurking right under the surface like a bad omen about to happen, unleashing its hell across the earth.

Ice litters the path forward, hiding under the thick layers of snow like a mischievous kitten seeking havoc.

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