The dagger skidded across the snow for the second time.
It cut a long line in the frost, twirling uselessly until it stopped several feet away, buried headfirst like it was trying to flee the scene itself.
Isabella's eye twitched.
Every vein in her forehead threatened rebellion.
For a full second, she sat still in the snow, breathing in the frozen air as if she were summoning ancient patience from the heavens. Her fingers trembled from cold, pain, and sheer annoyance.
Then, with the slow misery of a dying Victorian heroine, she began to crawl across the snow.
Not walk.
Not stand.
Not stomp.
Crawl.
Like life had beaten her down and she was accepting her new fate as a frostbitten worm.
Osiris watched the entire thing, sitting beside her with his legs awkwardly folded, trying not to freeze to death. His breath fogged in the air. His hair had tiny flakes of snow resting on it. Even his eyebrows looked cold.
