"Do you think we'll make it to Ashdale before nightfall?" Giselle asked, her voice quiet but clear inside the swaying carriage.
Lysara peered out through the small window, her breath fogging the glass. The world outside was white and endless. "At this rate, Your Majesty, I doubt it. The wind's picking up again."
The horses slowed. A knock followed, and Dorian's voice rose over the storm. "Your Majesty, the snow's deepening. We'll need to stop soon."
Fabio's sharp reply came from the front, half-lost to the howling wind. Within minutes, the carriage lurched to a stop.
When Giselle stepped down, the cold hit her like a wall. Her boots sank into the snow up to her ankles. The air was so cold it burned. Ahead of them, half-buried in frost, stood a cabin—its roof bowed under the weight of the snow, its windows rimmed with ice.
"This should serve," Fabio said. "We'll take shelter until the storm passes."
