THE WITCHER AND THE WOLF

THE WITCHER AND THE WOLF
CHAPTER SIX: THE SNOW QUEEN

Amadeus gazed across the vast, snow-drowned plains with contempt in his weary eyes. His wounds still bled beneath his armor, and like a rabid beast he licked the dried blood from his lips. He had only just left the castle of the infamous Count of Wallachia—Dracula—and exhaustion gnawed at his bones.

Legends spoke of the Snow Queen of the North—Freya—who wielded winter as if it were an extension of her will. They said she could conjure ice from her bare hands, freeze a man’s lungs with a single breath, and bend storms to her commands. Since the death of her husband, she had become a merciless tyrant. She built her army from stolen children, taken from their homes and forced into the brotherhood known as the White Legion.

From her white castle carved of ancient ice, seated on a throne of glaciers and frost, she declared war upon North Umbria. One by one, the small kings fell. Villages bowed or burned. Her domain grew, cold and unchallenged.

The Legion was her pride—the perfect soldiers. Orphans, beggars, and strays—taken in, not out of mercy, but for purpose. Trained by the most brutal warlords in all of North Umbria, they were taught to master both body and mind. Sword and shield, bow and arrow, wit and will. They learned to harness the hidden force within themselves. They endured frost, hunger, pain. And in return, the White Queen gifted them strength beyond mortal men—unnatural speed, magic, and unbreakable endurance. They became her iron fist upon the land.

Her silver hair fell over her shoulders like threads of moonlight. Her skin, pale and cold, gleamed like polished bone. She wore a gown as white as new snow, untouched by blood or ash. In the throne room she sat immovable, her breath curling into mist, chilling the very air and spine of every servant.

“My Queen, you have conquered all of the North. Beast and man alike tremble before your glory,” said Erik, kneeling as he presented a silver crown encrusted with jewels.

Freya swatted it from his hands with the petulance of a storm.

“I do not rule over monsters!” her voice echoed like thunder across ice.

“Every living thing must bow to my will,” she declared. Her eyes glittered like frozen stars. “There is a man they call the Witcher. Bring him to me. They say he commands monsters and vile creatures. Bring him before me, and I shall make him my pet.”

“My liege,” Erik whispered cautiously, “the Witcher is no loyal servant. He is a wanderer of Midgard, shunned by kings, bound to no throne—”

“Silence,” she snapped. The temperature seemed to plummet. Frost crept across stone. Her advisors shivered, rubbing their hands in vain. “I am your queen. You will do as I say.”

The courtiers bowed and fled, leaving Queen Freya alone with the howling winds and her thoughts.

The winter stretched on, merciless and eternal. No sun, only grey skies and whispering snow. Days bled into nights, and nights into hopelessness. Villages lay buried in frost. Children were stolen. Barns burned for refusing the Legion. Hearths went cold.

Amadeus’s black stallion, Knight—once unstoppable—now dragged his hooves in the deep snow, each breath a labored cloud. By his side padded Snow, his faithful direwolf, ears twitching, eyes sharp.

They came upon a forgotten village—silent, lifeless. A tavern stood at the center, wooden beams rotting, windows shattered by wind and time. Amadeus pushed open the door. It groaned in protest. Cold air blew through a broken pane, scattering flakes inside like white ghosts.

He knelt by the fireplace and, with trembling fingers, struck flint. Flames crackled to life upon old wood. Snow curled beside him, watching the door.

Amadeus removed his armor and slumped onto a torn Victorian-style couch. Exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into sleep…

A sudden howl—sharp and urgent—ripped him awake. Snow stood rigid, teeth bared, fur bristling. Amadeus grabbed Stormbringer, his greatsword, and stepped outside.

Four figures emerged from the darkness—cloaked soldiers, each armed with bows, arrows, and steel.

“Witcher!” one shouted, unrolling a scroll. “By order of Queen Freya, you are summoned to her court.” When he finished, he crumpled the parchment and tucked it into his coat.

“I bow to no king,” Amadeus growled, voice like thunder. “Nor to queens.”

An arrow whistled through the air, but he caught it effortlessly on Stormbringer’s steel. The sword ignited in blue flame as he whispered an ancient incantation.

A soldier wielding a warhammer charged. Amadeus deflected the blow with the hilt of his sword and struck back, plunging steel into his chest. Blood spilled onto the snow like a crimson waterfall.

Another soldier circled behind, whipping out a chain inscribed with glowing runes. It lashed around Amadeus like a living serpent. The Witcher’s sword clattered to the frozen earth.

With a roar he broke free of the enchanted chains, but the effort drained him. His knees hit the snow. His breaths were ragged. Blood dripped from his brow.

A final blow struck the back of his head. Darkness swallowed him.

“You will obey the Queen of the North,” growled the bearded man before everything went silent.

Those were the last words he remembered.

What fate awaited him in her icy grasp?
Would he defy her… or die at her feet?