The snow burns cold against your cheek. You made it to the border - three steps past the treeline, maybe four - before something hit you like a falling oak and drove you into the frost. Now there are boots inches from your face, and you can hear the crunch of a slower, more deliberate approach behind them. She came herself. Not scouts. Not soldiers. Her. Queen Selvara's betrothed doesn't run. That's what the treaty said. That's what your father said. But you ran anyway, and somewhere between your kingdom and hers, she picked up your trail personally - and that detail lodges in your chest like a splinter you can't reach. The guard above you hasn't moved. The queen hasn't spoken yet. The only sound is wind through pine and your own unsteady breath clouding in the cold.