The Long Winter was entering its fiftieth year the day the girl first shot down a frost dragon, and she would regret it forever.

That morning the land and sky looked as if they were as one. The pale blue above was dotted with white clouds into which the mountains rose up and seemed to merge, their snow-covered slopes blending seamlessly with the white of the clouds. In stark contrast with sky and snow stood the trees, a collection of dark skeletal forms interspersed with the evergreen of pine and holly oak. Not so much in contrast with the environment was the girl herself, lying still on her stomach in the snow, clad in white and grey furs of foxes and rabbits, tanned and tailored by her father. She was looking down her rifle, a thin cloud of smoke trailing from the muzzle, through which she saw her target.

The beast did not go down quietly. It screeched bloody murder all the way down, loud enough to make her fear an avalanche, until it hit the ground with a distant, snow-muffled thump. The screeching stopped immediately.

She made a pumping motion with her fist in celebration, and rose from her spot in the snow, leaving behind the imprint of her body. She lifted her rifle out of the forked stick she had stuck in the ground to stabilize her aim. A deep breath chilled her insides, before she began her descent into the valley. Hopefully she could get there before the scavengers. Dragons had no predators, but wolves and bears wouldn’t care, not since it had been generations since the last spring.

The girl found her horse a little down the mountain, where she’d left it tied under some bald trees. She put her rifle in one of the saddle holsters, next to a shortspear, untied the horse, and soon was on her way. Their pace was slow, careful, but deliberate. Off the beaten path the snow could prove treacherous, hiding pitfalls or loose rocks. She rummaged around in a satchel that hung from her shoulder, producing a small compass from it that she used to check her heading, marking it in her mind for the route she’d have to take back.

By the time she neared the spot where she’d seen the dragon crash into the ground, flecks of snow were beginning to fall. She heard voices coming from the direction of her destination. A tug on the reins brought her steed to a halt. She held her hand against the mare’s neck, hoping the gesture would ensure it remained quiet. Around them, the forest was quiet, but for the murmur of those voices ahead of them. There were two—no, three—distinct voices talking, one louder than the others, overpowering them, but too distant for more than a few words to be clear, and therefore everything was unclear. She needed to get closer, but it could compromise her position, bring her in jeopardy. The hunter bit her lip in thought. She wasn’t about to let someone else run off with her first haul of the year, let alone her first dragon. It would mean bad luck for the rest of the year. At the very least, she should spy who had found the dragon, see whether she could convince or threaten the other hunter to leave. She slipped off her horse and left it behind as she snuck closer, staying low to the ground, until she could make out two men through the trees.

“It’s the fall that killed it, not the shot,” one voice said.

“If the shot made it fall and crash like this, the shot killed it,” came reply—an older, gruff voice. “Have you got the bullet out yet?”

“Almost.”

Both voices were male, and she noted their Pawonian accents. Imperium folk, like her. What she could see of their dress noted them as wealthy northerners, for as much one could call anyone northerners this far south.

“Adamantine pellet,” the younger voice concluded. It belonged to a young man in black and purple clothes and wolf furs. He held up a bloody hand, standing next to the dragon’s corpse, and examined the pellet closely. “It was fired from a Salterri rifle.”

“One of the fancy folk, eh,” judged the older one, looking into the woods on the opposite end of the clearing, his back towards her. “They’re usually terrible shots. Even you are a better shot.”

The young man was visibly displeased with the older man’s riffing.

“All things considered, our poacher got a lucky shot on a dragon too young to have grown proper scales.” The older man handed the younger a knife. “Cut out the heart. It’s worth a lot.”

The younger man stared at the knife for a few moments, before he walked back to the dragon.

The girl knew it was time to go. Her father had taught her how to defend herself, but it’d be foolish to try and steal the heart.

A click to her left put her on alert. She slowly turned her head and found herself staring into the deep, deathly black void inside of a rifle barrel, held by a man who resembled the other two. “Hands where I can see them, boy. And get up. Slowly.”

She rose slowly, but her mind was racing. If they were poachers, they’d kill her. If they weren’t, they still might. Pawonians weren’t known for their kindness towards strangers. They still thought she was a boy, an ignorance she could exploit, at least for as long as she kept silent and her woolen scarf wasn’t pulled down from her face.

He commanded her to walk in front of him and they came into the clearing. The younger man startled when he saw her and drew his sword, which slipped and fell from his bloody fingers. The older man shook his head at him. “A fine day’s hunting. First we come upon a dragon, now we got ourselves a poacher. Wonder what else the day will bring?

The man looked at her as if he was expecting her to talk back, but she stayed silent, averted her eyes, and purposefully looked around instead, away from the man. She saw their horses now, standing at the edge of the clearing. Four black horses, three mares and a stallion.

“Alright,” the man said, not in the mood to wait eternally for reply, “put your hands on your back so we can tie you up, lest you want your brains blown out.”

She lowered her arms to her sides, thinking fast. She heard the man behind her move, snow crisp under his feet. The others were still dozens of feet away. Survival instinct kicking in, she twisted around, one arm rising fast, knocking away the rifle. She caught a glimpse of the man’s wide eyes in his weathered, scowling face, just before the rifle went off and the sound of the world died for precious seconds. Her fist hit his throat, followed by a kick to his knee that knocked his legs out from under him. She grabbed the rifle, yanking it free from his weakened grasp, and swung it around like a club, hitting the younger man in the head and down into the snow. She shot a glimpse at the older man, who’d already drawn his sword, and she thought wiser than to engage him. Snow kicked up from the ground as she made a run for it.

 “Bichredol!” One of the men cursed.

She kicked through half a foot of snow as fast as her legs could carry her. The sounds of the men grew more distant as she got out of the clearing and came deeper into the woods, but with the sounds of the men she could hear the sounds of their horses. Her lead would quickly diminish, and then she’d be caught again. The thought frightened her, and spurred her on. It gave her the strength to ignore the burning in her legs and the freezing in her lungs that pulled her chest together with an icy grip. The thick of the trees and the undergrowth dampened noise in the forest, and she almost felt safe enough to look over her shoulder when close behind her she heard their cries. Shouts encouraged the horses to go faster, only to have to sacrifice speed again because the trees were in their way. Yet they came closer, ever closer. The girl became acutely aware of the weight of her coat and the satchel tugging constantly at her shoulder. She could not compete with the swiftness of their horses. Attempting to hide would be foolish—her tracks in the snow would instantly give her away. Ahead of her she saw light coming from behind a rock wall. It was all she could do. The shouting was now right behind her. She heard the sound of steel being unsheathed. Her last steps were heavy as she rounded the corner.

Those last steps carried her into open air. In her haste to escape, she’d run straight off a steep incline. She tumbled down through snow and rocks, before coming to a still on her back at the bottom. The world looked unsteady, but what she could see above her made her feel slightly better in the face of her immediate pounding ache all over her body. Two horsemen stood at the top of the steep incline, fifty feet above her. She couldn’t see the third, but saw a large black shape lying in the snow a third of the way down.

She scrambled up and didn’t bother with a final look. She made for the trees at the bottom of the incline and disappeared from the horsemen’s view.