Whisper of Blade | ✓ (Crimson #1)

Chapter 16: Eye of the Snake

"Awake," a gentle voice echoed.

Cold shocked her system. Minerva sputtered at the cutting edge of the air, taking in the thick pieces of white swirling violently down from a midnight sky. Her legs sank into icy wet powder.

Where am I?

After flailing for several seconds, she stood still. Tears formed to freeze on her eyelashes. Puffs of breath appeared in misty clouds. Had—had she died?

If that were the case, she could almost appreciate the irony of a freezing hell. A barren wasteland with snow in every direction—up, down, before her and behind—instead of a fiery pit where the ash and smoke would remind her of home.

Her hands flew to the space below her ribs, then to her face. Nothing. No wounds, no scars. At least she had her clothes still on, but they weren't suited for weather conditions like these. "By the bloody Three," Minerva rasped through chapped, numbing lips.

She shivered uncontrollably and wondered if she should lie down and let the falling snow bury her. Even if she somehow survived this, the thorough soaking and chilling would guarantee contracting Fire Fever.

Could you die in a dream? Could you die again if you'd already entered the afterlife?

A low growl sounded behind her.

Minerva whirled around, legs tangling up beneath her to send her sprawling into the snow. She'd finally had the opportunity to see the mythical powder, to feel it beneath her hands and lightly dusting her hair.

She loathed snow.

At first, she didn't see the wolf. Its white coat blended in perfectly with the landscape. Only when she looked up did she catch the flash of its wintery blue eyes and snuffling black nose. The wolf's snout was much more slender, but otherwise its proportions were similar to Mala's.

In other words, giant. It could crush her beneath its paw—break her neck with a snap of its fangs.

But it didn't. Instead, the wolf bent down and nosed at her hand. Its nose felt warm, it felt real.

And most of all it felt rather wet and slimy.

When the wolf whined at her, Minerva stopped shying away and let it help her stand. The ends of its coat had crusted, but closer to its body the fur was deliciously warm and brought the tingling back to her dead hands. Burn it, why did coming back to life have to be so uncomfortable though?

The wolf nudged her toward a mound in the snow. Then it started digging and Minerva had to shield her face to avoid being hit by the flurry.

The first thing she noticed was the blood. Against the purity of the snow, the droplets were a vibrant taint. But the blood was only a garnish, the decoration around the body lying either dead or unconscious underneath the weight of a fresh animal skin.

Minerva quickly pressed two fingers to the person's neck. Alive, but not for long. Maybe this person could tell her where they were. With a great amount of gasping and effort due to her failing motor control, she rolled the person onto their side. Congealed blood painted their cheek and a layer of frost crystallized the rest of the visible skin.

A hat hid their hair from sight and a thick cloth shielded their nose and mouth. Minerva tentatively reached out to pull the cloth down to confirm they were breathing.

The person's eye snapped open.

Minerva screamed, trying to get away but failing. That eye held her gaze transfixed—a snake's eye on a human face. The black slit of a pupil focused on her after flicking around in the silver sclera.