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My fingers tighten around the reins.

I should have stayed.

The thought comes with such certainty that I close my eyes for a second.

I should have stayed in the castle.

I should have waited until the weather cleared, should have asked Rhys again, should have done anything except climb onto Bramble and ride onto a mountain in the middle of winter because I was desperate to see my father.

The snowfall thickens, and Bramble stops.

“Come on, boy.”

He doesn’t move.

“Bramble.”

His ears flatten as another gust tears through the trees, sending snow swirling around us until I have to close my eyes and turn my face away. When I open them again, I can barely see more than a few yards ahead.

Getting caught by Rhys no longer feels like the worst thing that can happen to me out here.

I turn Bramble around.

Or I try to.

I stare at the endless white behind us, searching desperately for our tracks, but they’re already disappearing under the fresh snow.

I don’t know which way leads back.

Or toward the village.

The snow starts falling harder, thick flakes driven sideways by the wind until I can barely see a few inches ahead of us. That’s when I understand the monumental mistake I’ve made. If I can’t figure out a way back to the castle or down toward the village, I haven’t escaped anything.

I’ve killed both myself and Bramble.

We can’t stay here, though, so I tighten my grip on the reins and urge him forward, hoping his instincts are better than mine. It seems to grow colder with every minute that passes. The wind cuts through my clothes while snow collects across Bramble’s mane and my shoulders faster than I can brush it away.

“Shit,” I whisper.

I’m scared, and I’m cold enough now that my hands ache inside my gloves. Worse, when I nudge Bramble with my foot, he doesn’t move. His ears remain flat against his head as he shifts his weight, lifting one front leg and setting it back exactly where it was. I urge him forward again, but he tosses his head and refuses.

“Come on, boy.” I lean forward and rub his neck, trying to calm both of us. “We can’t stay here.”

Still, he refuses to move.

I look down at the snow surrounding his legs and realize how deep it has become, the drifts nearly reaching his belly in places. Asking him to carry my weight through this is only making things harder, so I swing one leg over his back and carefully slide from the saddle.

The moment my boots hit the ground, I sink.

Snow swallows my legs all the way to my knees, and the sudden resistance throws me forward until I catch myself against Bramble’s shoulder. I stare down in disbelief and try to pull one leg free, but lifting it requires enough effort that by the time I manage a single step, I’m already breathing harder.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. We can do this.”

I take hold of Bramble’s reins close to his bridle and start forward, forcing one leg through the snow and then the other while he reluctantly follows behind me. Every step is exhausting, my boots disappearing into the snow until I have to wrench them free again. After only a few yards, my thighs are burning and my breath is coming too quickly.

Bramble stops again.

I pull gently on the reins. “Come on.”