The scout's words hung in the frozen air like a death knell. Blood bubbled from his lips as he collapsed forward, face planting into the snow. The dying horse behind him shuddered once and went still.
Anya felt the world narrow to a single, impossible truth.
A woman who commands blizzards.
Another Winter Soul.
Nikolai's hand tightened around hers until it hurt, but she barely noticed. Her power stirred restlessly beneath her skin, answering some distant call she could not yet name.
Dmitri knelt beside the scout, pressing two fingers to the man's neck. "Dead." He looked up, expression grim. "But his message was clear. The border fortresses are gone. The horde moves faster than any army should."
Nikolai's voice was steady, but Anya heard the fracture beneath. "How many?"
"Tens of thousands. Maybe more." Dmitri stood, wiping blood from his gloves. "They didn't breach the walls with siege engines. They froze the river solid overnight and walked across. Entire garrisons… encased in ice."
Anya's stomach turned. "Like statues."
"Like warnings," Dmitri corrected.
Nikolai released her hand and turned toward the inn, cloak swirling. "We ride for the palace at once. Double the pace. Send riders ahead—every regiment south of the capital is to mobilize."
Guards scrambled to obey.
Anya caught his arm before he could stride away. "Nikolai."
He stopped, silver-blue eyes meeting hers. For the first time since she had known him—boy or emperor—he looked uncertain.
"Three souls," she said quietly. "That's what the old legends say, isn't it? Three to balance the winter… or break it."
He nodded once. "My father had the chronicles burned. Said they were dangerous superstition."
"Looks like the superstition is burning us now."
A ghost of pain crossed his face. "If she's truly like us—"
"She's stronger," Anya finished. "For now."
Dmitri approached, leading three fresh horses. "We'll take these. The sleighs are too slow with the new snow."
They mounted without another word. The inn's torches receded behind them as they thundered south along the imperial highway, moonlit snow flying beneath hooves.
Hours blurred. They changed horses twice at hidden waystations, pushing the animals to the edge of collapse. Nikolai rode in silence, but Anya felt his gaze on her more than once—searching, protective, afraid.
Near dawn, they crested the final ridge overlooking the frozen River Vechnaya—the empire's northern lifeline, now a gleaming highway of betrayal.
And there they saw it.
An army.
Not the ragged raiders of old border skirmishes. This was a black tide stretching to the horizon: disciplined ranks of Tatar horsemen, banners whipping in the wind. At their head flew the white tiger—enormous, shimmering as if woven from living frost.
Even from miles away, Anya felt the pull. A song in her blood, ancient and irresistible.
Nikolai reined in beside her. "She's waiting."
Anya nodded, throat dry. "She feels us."
The wind shifted, carrying a faint, mocking laugh across the ice.
Then a lone rider detached from the host and galloped toward the river's center.
A woman. Young, wild, beautiful in a way that made Sofia's polished elegance seem brittle. Midnight hair streamed behind her like a banner; a circlet of unmelting ice crowned her brow, shaped into a snarling tiger's head.
She stopped midway across the frozen river and raised one hand.
The ice answered.
A massive bridge of frost erupted upward, arching high above the river—wide enough for an army, delicate as spun glass, glowing with inner blue light.
An invitation.
Or a challenge.
Nikolai's hand brushed Anya's on the reins. "We could turn back. Fortify the capital. Make her come to us."
Anya stared at the bridge, at the woman waiting beneath the white tiger banner.
"No," she said. "We meet her now. On open ground. Before she reaches the palace and finds Sofia waiting with open arms."
Dmitri muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse.
Nikolai's jaw tightened. "Then we ride."
They urged their horses down the slope and onto the river ice. The surface held firm, ringing beneath hooves like crystal.
Halfway across, the woman waited.
Up close, she was breathtaking. Skin pale as moonlight, eyes the cold blue of glacial depths. White tiger fur trimmed her armor; silver bells woven into her braids chimed softly.
She smiled as they approached—and the temperature plunged sharply enough to burn.
"Little cousins," she said in accented Russian, voice rich and amused. "At last."
Nikolai dismounted first, offering Anya his hand. She took it and stepped down beside him, Dmitri flanking them a pace behind.
The woman—Katerina—tilted her head. "I am Katerina Zimovskaya, last true daughter of the Winter Throne." She spread her arms, and snow swirled around her in perfect spirals. "And you are the Romanov pretender… and his northern wildling."
Anya felt her power rise in answer, frost crackling along her fingertips.
Katerina's eyes gleamed. "Oh, I like her."
Nikolai's voice cut like a blade. "You invade my empire with an army at your back and speak of kinship?"
Katerina laughed. "I bring truth, Nikolai. The throne was never meant for one bloodline alone. Three souls were forged to rule together—one storm, one blizzard, one killing frost." Her gaze settled on Anya. "And the prophecies lied. There are not three to balance the winter."
She stepped closer, boots leaving tiger-paw prints of frost.
"There are three to conquer it."
Anya's heart slammed against her ribs. "And if we refuse?"
Katerina's smile sharpened. "Then one of us dies. The winter demands balance."
She raised her hand—and the ice bridge trembled.
Far behind her, the Tatar host began to move, crossing the river in perfect formation.
Katerina mounted again. "You have until the full moon rises tomorrow. Meet me at the Gates of Winter with your answer. Come as allies…"
Her eyes locked on Anya's, fierce and knowing.
"…or come ready to bleed."
She wheeled her horse and galloped back toward her army.
The bridge began to crack beneath their feet—slowly, deliberately.
Nikolai grabbed Anya's hand. "Ride!"
They spurred their horses as the ice shattered behind them in thunderous booms, racing for the southern bank.
They reached solid ground just as the bridge collapsed into the river in a roaring avalanche of frost and spray.
Panting, Anya looked back.
Katerina stood on the far side, white tiger banner snapping above her.
And in the distance, something else caught the dawn light—a second banner rising among the Tatar ranks.
A black raven on crimson.
Dragunov's sigil.
Flying beside the white tiger.
The alliance was already made.
And the true invasion had only just begun.