I saw the frost tracing the grain of the wood and my breath clouding the air almost every night, and I felt the cold in my bones and knew with absolute certainty that the fate of the world depended on what was on the other side. But that night, I dreamed of Chase. He slept on a cot in a small room. Old-fashioned furniture was scattered around him, across a worn stone floor, the legs of stools tangled with the spokes of some wooden wheels. A window was cut into the pale wall. Far below, a river glittered in the sunlight, and birds chirped outside. Chase’s sleeve was spotted with blood but, besides that, he didn’t have a mark on him. It was so peaceful, and he was only napping. I didn’t understand why, in the dream, I was so worried that he wouldn’t wake up. In the morning, even before I opened my eyes, I remembered two things: It was my birthday, and the Snow Queen wouldn’t let it be a happy one. Something terrible was going to happen. I just knew it. I rolled out of bed, pulled on battle-ready clothes, double-knotted my sneakers, and strapped on my sword.
