Cathra was seven when she was first shot by an arrow.

Back then, all Cathra remembered wanting was a warhorse like her Lord Father’s.

It was a lean and powerful stallion, with a firey mane that made it look like King Valdak Narage was riding the flames of hell into battle. Given the name Red Mist, the way the creature would leap into battle, weaving between swords and axes with the grace of a dancer, always gave Cathra chills as she watched.

Castle Ice had many foes during those days, though Cathra never remembered their names or why they were enemies in the first place. All she remembered was watching her father lead his troops charging across the plains of snow, though she always remained in the safety of the rearguard, surrounded by her personal riders, so was never close enough to really see what was going on.

One day, her seven-year-old mind devised a plan to get closer to the battlefield.

“I want to go back to the castle,” she remembered telling one of her riders. “I’m hungry.”

“As my princess wishes,” said the man, and he gave the order for the rest of Cathra's group to retreat.

As everyone was turning their mounts to go, Cathra dug her boots into her mare’s sides and forced it shooting forward. Then after a few leagues of listening to the shouts behind her grow louder, Cathra swung back around and charged right through whoever was gaining on her, zipping through grasping hands like a slippery fish.

And just like that, she was free.

It wasn’t long until Cathra was galloping across the battlegrounds with the wind in her hair and dead bodies all around her. Everywhere she looked, there were soldiers dying. Cathra tried not to look at them. She knew her courage would fail her otherwise.

I’m just going to have one look at Red Mist, she told herself. And then I’ll head back home.

It felt like someone had punched her.

Cathra did not remember falling, but she remembered being on the ground, watching as her mare charged on without her. She sat up and for a second the only thought she had was, A warhorse would never run without someone sitting in the saddle, before pain made her look down.

She saw the arrow then, sticking out from the side of her hip. It had punctured right through her hide armor and even as she watched, the patch of bright red continued to spread through the fur where the shaft disappeared into her skin.

That shouldn’t be there, was the last coherent thought Cathra had before she started to scream.

The darkness lights up in dizzying agony as if a million hot needles are plunging into Cathra’s body. She bites back a string of curses and tries to twist away, which just makes the pain worse.

“Hang in there, Captain Stelias!” Through semi-conscious ears she hears a man's voice, familiar but she can't quite put a face to it. “We’re almost done getting you free!”

She tries to open her eyes, but her body does not seem to know anything beyond pain.

"Hurry, boy!" the man roars, "They’ll both bleed out if we don’t get them down right now!"

Another spasm of fire blazes along Cathra's nerves. This time she does cry out.

"I got it!" a boy's voice cuts through the chaos.

"Get her down, quickly!"

“Watch out!”

A high-pitched scream rings through Cathra's ears. She feels the world shifting out from under her. She falls, right back into the pool of warm consciousness.

It should not have been a surprise to anyone, after what happened to Cathra, that King Valdak gave the command she was never to join in any battles again.

"You are my daughter, Cat, and the only heir to this uncomfortable seat." The King slapped the arm of the crystallized throne in which he sat. “I cannot have you wandering off into battle like that. I have cut off the heads of your personal riders for their failure, but I cannot keep replacing them like this!”

“It wasn’t their faults,” Cathra started to argue but King Valdak held up a hand to silence her. They were in the throne room alone but even so, the Barbarian King dropped his voice to a low murmur. “There was talk of peace from the Beastmen yesterday, Daughter. A bird was sent telling of a peace convoy heading our way, and I have invited them to sup in the castle.”

Cathra did not know what this had to do with her until her father put a big hand on her head and said,

“If I know my enemies, there will be talk of marriage.” His grey eyes betrayed no hint into his mind, but Cathra didn’t know how to read hints even if they were there. “I suppose it will not do us well if I keep calling them enemies, aye? But you see, there might not even be battles for you to look at in the future.”

Cathra did not understand much of what the King was saying. “Who is getting married, Lord Father?” she asked. “Are we invited?”

King Valdak smiled. His teeth were yellow and some of them were broken, but it was still the loveliest sight to Cathra.

"The spirit of the Ancients are with us," the King said as he reached over and cupped Cathra's chin in his wide fingers. "Tomorrow, my little Cat, you will be eight years of age. Come to the dining hall when I send word for you. Dress nicely. There will be a surprise I wish to show you.”

Cathra couldn't hold back her glee. “Is it my own warhorse?” she asked all bright-eyed as if the conversation they just had was already forgotten. “I promise I’ll be extra careful with it. I’ll never make it go into the battlegrounds.”

The King just laughed. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

The mountain air was especially crisp the next morning, though thinking back, Cathra will not deny the possibility it only seemed that way through the rosy lenses of her memories. Little Cathra thought she was about to get her own warhorse after all, and one must always be gracious when receiving a gift of such magnitude.

With the help of her handmaids, Cathra put on a sleeveless dress of blue silk, a fine cream-colored cloak, and knee-high socks with fur-laced booties. It was the finest attire she had, and she even gave the order for her snow-tiger pelt to be brought out. The snow tiger was her prize kill during the hunt of her seventh birthday, and her father had the icy white pelt made into a cape after. Cathra loved it so much she kept it in a specially-made chest at the foot of her bed.

She watched in the mirror as her handmaids took the pelt out and draped it over her shoulders. The white fur sparkled like diamonds in the morning light and for the first time ever, Cathra felt like a true princess of the snow.

Yet, when Cathra entered into the Great Hall, all those feelings were gone. There was not a horse waiting for her but the bizarre sight of her father, feasting at the head of the table with three even more bizarre-looking people seated around him.

Cathra froze at the doorway, suddenly unsure of what to do.

“Daughter!” King Valdak hollered when he saw her standing there, “Come!”

She did.

The King had a thick slice of buffalo perched on the prongs of his fork and it jiggled precariously as he swept a hand at the guests around the table. "Daughter," he said merrily, "meet the Jinyu’s Emperor’s people. They’re here to speak on behalf of the Emperor’s son, Na… zounds, what is he called again?”

“Prince Na’yun, twelfth son of the Great Emperor Zan’yun,” said one stranger. He was covered from head to toe in shiny scales like a giant lizard, and Cathra watched in morbid fascination as the man pushed a crowd of raspberries onto his spoon, lowered his face over it, and flicked it into his snout-liked mouth.

She was so disturbed by the man’s eating that Cathra had to force herself to look at something else to keep from being rude. She stared at the roasted buffalo on the table instead. The smoked carcass was split open right down the middle, its limbs tied to a rectangular net made of steel. A bundle of herbs was stuffed in its opened jaws and every chunk her father ripped from its body made a hideous tearing noise. Cathra watched as red-orange oil splurted from the fibrous meat with each of the Barbarian King’s attacks.

“Ah, yes,” said the King, chewing noisily. “Nan-nun. Yes. Handsome young man, I’m sure. I hear he also hunts?” He stabbed his fork into pink flesh and ripped off a fist-sized chunk, and had it halfway to his mouth before he seemed to remember Cathra was there.

“Sit, Daughter. There’s no need to be a stranger. You will be seeing these three often in the coming years.”

Cathra sat in the empty seat next to her father, her body stiff and her movements wooden.

“The Prince enjoys horseback riding in the great woods near the palace,” went another man. He had skin so hairy it looked like he was wrapped in a bear’s coat. When he spoke his words sounded almost muffled. “He is only twelve years of age but has shown great aptitude for the bow. He has brought home many squirrels, and once a rabbit.”

Cathra’s mouth hung open, stupefied. That’s it? she wanted to asked. I killed a snow-tiger when I was seven! But she didn't get a single word out before King Valdak gave a hoot of appreciation.

“See, Daughter? You two are destined to be together! If your Lady Mother was here she would say the same thing!”

Cathra rarely heard the King mention his wife. He was always drunk when he did talk about the woman who gave birth to Cathra, but it was never in front of others.

Cathra knew what it all meant then, but even so, she did not believe it. She could not. How could she just be married off to their enemies like this? She looked between the three creatures around the table, each uglier than the last. True to their name, the lizard and bear ate like beasts. Both of them wore leather armor that looked two sizes too small, hugging tightly around their grotesque forms like bonds rather than protection.

But it was the third stranger, the one who sat opposite the two yaojin and next to Cathra, who scared her the most. This stranger had a feline face, all sharp points and angular eyes. She had long hair that hung in loose clumps down her sullen, dark-spotted cheeks, and when she ate, Cathra caught sight of a mouth full of pointed teeth. Though worst of all is how the stranger kept sneaking glances at Cathra over her porridge, like a starving wolf eyeing its prey.

Cathra turned to her father. “May I be excused, Lord Father? I don’t feel very well.”

King Valdak was not eager to answer her. He chewed, swallowed, and held out his horn for the servant to refill it, barely keeping it steady. Then with a smile that was as generous as he was known to be in character, he said in loud-voiced certainty, “Glory to the Kingdom of Ice! With our clans joined with this marriage, my yaojin friends, we shall conquer Gandolia and its people!” As he threw back his horn, Cathra felt her future draining away like the wine inside it.

“Oh, don’t look so startled, Daughter,” said the King once he put the horn back down. “This is a wondrous occasion! As soon as you’re married, you will be living with the Prince in his grand palace as a queen! Think of that! You’ll never have to worry about food or safety for the rest of your life! Does that not make you want to sing?”

No, it doesn’t! Cathra wanted to grab these freaks by their snouts scream into their ears. I’d rather die in my own castle than be sold off to you monsters!

In that moment, with strangers surrounding her and a drunk father wanting to betray her, Cathra had to fight the urge to grab the roasted buffalo off the table and swing it against the walls, against the windows, into the yaojin's faces.

But she didn't do that. Instead, she politely excused herself, ran straight back to her room, bolted the door behind her, and screamed into her pillows.

When Cathra wakes again, she is looking up at a moving sky. It takes her a moment to realize she’s the one who is moving, then another minute to realize she’s being carried. She turns her head to look around, but a gruff voice tells her to, “Stay still,” so she does.

“Don’t worry, Captain, you’re amongst friends.”

Cathra finally recognizes the voice as belonging to one Bartholome the Blacksmith. She strains to look at him. Though they’ve never been especially close, the moment Cathra sees that familiar broad, black-stubbled face, she feels like she might cry.

“You,” she whispers, “still owe me seventy-five silvers, good sir.”

Laughter echoes from the man’s broad chest. “We should talk about this later, Captain.”

He’s panting, Cathra notes with no small degree of confusion. Like we’ve been running. Why were we running and from where?

She tries to recall the previous events that have led her into this situation, but her mind is shutting down. Exhaustion takes over her thoughts and she tries to fight for as long as she can but she has no strength left.

“Where… Kyros?” is all she manages before her eyes shut again.

She doesn’t hear Bartholome's answer.

That same night Cathra learned her Lord Father had betrothed her to some yaojin boy-prince she never heard of from the neighboring kingdom she never had any interest in, Cathra packed a bag of clothing, strapped her sword to her back and left the mountainous castle that had been her home for the last seven - no, eight years.

She went into the kitchen to pack some bread and jerky, making an excuse to the late-night cook that she was hungry, and then snuck out into the snow as soon as the moon slipped behind the clouds.

The castle was asleep, but Cathra still stuck to the shadows like a thief, avoiding the small number of guards patrolling the outskirts of the castle.

When she arrived at the stables, Cathra hesitated for a long time before taking the reins of Red Mist. She could have taken any horse, and thinking back, Cathra admits it was the most reckless thing she could have done, but at that moment she wanted nothing more than to get her father back for betraying her, for using her as a bargaining tool. When the stallion’s red eyes opened, Cathra saw reflected through them not the face of a scared child but that of a determined woman, and she knew then that she made the right decision.

They went torchless down the Dragonspine Mountains and through the forests below, but Cathra was not blind. The layout of the land had long been imprinted in her mind through the maps that hung over her Lord Father's war chambers. With her warhorse’s steady, powerful breathing whistling in her ears, Cathra felt strong. She felt stronger than when she sliced open the artery in the snow-tiger’s neck, stronger than when she bit back tears as she listened to her father’s stories of her mother.

That night, and many nights after, she was The Cathra Who Rode, and not the Child Princess Cathranhae who was nothing more than goods to be traded. She took courage in that. She drew strength in the knowledge that even should her Lord Father send men to fetch her, she would not go. She would fight and cut them all down, including the King of the Dragonspine himself if he dared show his face to her again.

As the moon emerged from behind its veil of clouds, Cathra felt the presence of the mountains and her father fading into the darkness behind her. She kept her eyes forward, drawing her tiger-pelt tighter over her shoulders, and as she listened to the beat of Red Mist’s hooves galloping across the dirt road, Cathra’s heart grew lighter, and lighter, until it felt like she was flying.