Winter in the Kingdom of Rome was not a season, but a silent siege. The world was dyed a blinding white, and the air grew so thick that breath escaped one’s lips like shreds of ghosts. For Priscila, the snow had always been a two-sided coin: a part of her admired the purity of the landscape, but the other, the one carrying the weight of the crown, suffered at the thought of the homes where fire was a luxury and not a guarantee.

  Since her childhood, that awareness had pushed her into the streets. This year, under a sky heavy with leaden clouds, Priscila did not wait for the frost to grow thicker.

  — Coral, prepare the heaviest furs and order the carriage to be loaded — she instructed with a firm voice —. One less blanket in this palace won't kill anyone, but out there, it can be the difference between life and death.

  Once in the heart of the village, the cold bit to the bone. Priscila, wrapped in her coat, delivered flour, fruit, and wool with hands that, despite her gloves, were beginning to grow numb.

  — Do not go out more than necessary — she warned a young woman holding a new blanket tightly —. Storms give no warning; they arrive like thieves in the night.

  — Yes, Princess — the girl replied, but her gaze drifted toward the forest with evident anguish. She lowered her voice, as if the wind could betray her boldness —. There is no firewood, Your Highness. The woodcutter says the carts aren't arriving... we fear the cold will win before the wood does. Could you... speak with the Queen?

  The girl’s cautious tone ignited a spark of indignation in Priscila’s chest. It wasn't a plea for charity; it was a cry for survival.

  — Of course I will speak with her — Priscila affirmed, holding the girl’s gaze to give her reassurance —. If it is necessary to bring the logs one by one on horseback, it will be done. I will not allow the kingdom to freeze while the storehouses are full.

  As she stepped back into the carriage, the warmth inside felt almost offensive. As the wheels crunched over the fresh snow on the way back to the palace, a question hammered at her temple: she knew perfectly well that the wood reserves were overflowing in the royal basements. Why was her grandmother withholding the heat from the people?

  Upon crossing the palace threshold, Priscila did not allow the warmth of the hearths to distract her. Her orders were precise and swift:

  — Prepare more furs, double the flour rations, and do not forget the medicinal herbs. We will head out again as soon as the carriage is ready.

  — Where is my grandmother? — she asked the first guard she found in the vestibule.

  — I believe I saw her heading to the great dining hall. — the man replied with a brief bow —. By the way, this arrived for you: a missive from Lord Máximo.

  At the sight of the Valois seal, a spark of genuine warmth lit up Priscila’s face. She took the letter carefully, feeling that this small piece of paper was the only relief on such a gelid morning. — Thank you.

  She walked directly toward the dining hall. Opening the heavy oak doors, she found Queen Edesia submerged among parchments, her gaze fixed on the letters while holding a steaming cup of tea. At the sound of the doors, the Queen looked up, softening her expression slightly.

  — My heart, what is the matter? — she asked with a curiosity tinged with calm, extending her arms in a maternal gesture —. Come here, give me a hug.

  Priscila approached and sank into her grandmother’s embrace, seeking for a second the safety of the woman who had raised her.

  — You know, the winter tradition — she said as she pulled away, taking a chair to sit across from her —. But I have a question...

  — And I have an answer — Edesia replied, setting the cup on the table with a metallic click. — I’ve been told the woodcutter hasn't received the wood — Priscila blurted out, watching her grandmother intently —. And we both know that wood is stored right here, in the palace storehouses. What are we waiting for?

  The Queen sketched a smile, but it was a hollow gesture, a mask of courtesy that did not reach her eyes. — There was a setback with the heavy carts, Priscila. They will leave in a few days, when the path is safer.

  — But the citizens are cold today, Grandmother, not in a few days — the Princess rebutted, her voice laden with a worry bordering on desperation —. We have the light carriages that can be hitched to draft horses. We could carry less load per trip; yes, it would be slower, but we would save lives. We only need to speak with the warehouse manager.

  — Darling, I know perfectly well what needs to be done — the Queen interrupted her, her tone becoming colder than the snow outside —. Your ideas are noble, but we cannot force the animals to undertake such an effort under this storm. It would be unnecessary cruelty.

  — And if I go to the warehouse myself? — Priscila insisted, without yielding —. Perhaps there are old carriages we can use, or some other solution we are missing...

  — I will handle it — the Queen declared, and this time her voice snapped with a severity that made the air in the room turn heavy —. And for your own safety, I expect you not to set foot in the storehouses. Is that clear?

  The silence that followed was suffocating. Priscila felt that her grandmother's gaze was not that of a protector, but that of someone guarding a secret with tooth and nail.

  — Fine... Let me know when it is resolved, please.

  The Queen nodded without another word, returning her attention to the papers as if the conversation had ended. Priscila left the dining hall with her heart racing. She knew she couldn't stay idle, and as she pressed Máximo's letter against her chest, she realized the warehouse —just like the South Wing— had become forbidden territory she would die to explore.

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  Priscila returned from the village with a heavy soul. The cold wasn't the only thing biting; it was the look of the children and the elderly who sought in her a security that her grandmother was taking away. She hated giving evasive answers; she hated feeling that the crown she would one day wear weighed more for its secrets than for its gold.

  But submission was never one of her virtues. Instead of going to rest, her steps led her directly toward the forbidden: the storehouses.

  Upon arriving, the noise of activity surprised her. Relief was a warm wave in her chest at the sight of men loading carts with robust logs. For a second, she felt guilty for having doubted Edesia; perhaps, after all, her grandmother was just being cautious. She approached one of the guards, seeking to confirm what her eyes wanted to believe.

  — Are you taking all this to the village already? — she asked, trying to sound casual.

  The guard, a man named Iván who wore exhaustion in the dark circles under his eyes, wiped sweat from his forehead despite the cold.

  — Some of it, Highness. But most of it is going to the other side of the kingdom, heading deep into the forest... — he replied with a naturalness that turned Priscila’s blood to ice.

  — To where, exactly? — she inquired quickly, her voice losing all calm.

  — I don't know. I was simply given the order to fill the carts and prepare the horses.

  — How many carts are there in total?

  — At least about twenty-three, Your Majesty.

  — And how many of those are headed to the village?

  Iván made a doubtful face, looking at the display of wood. — Five or six, I'm not quite sure. But the shipment has already been paid for; it comes from somewhere with a symbol... in the shape of a K, or something like it. I'm not very clear on it.

  Priscila nodded mechanically, though her mind was a chaos. — Thank you, Iván — she managed to say before turning away.

  She walked back to the palace with clenched fists. Indignation burned her throat. How was it possible? Nearly three-quarters of the wood meant to warm her people was being diverted to the heart of the forest, toward an unknown destination marked with that symbol she had drawn in secret: the strange K, the enclosed triangle, the emblem of her vision and the forbidden room.

  Entering her room, she collapsed into the chair in front of her desk. She felt dizzy. For years, she had blindly trusted her grandmother’s management, focusing on her own travels and training, believing her contribution was an extra and not the sole pillar holding the people's hope. But now, the truth was revealing itself with terrifying rawness.

  Her grandmother wasn't just hiding old furniture in the South Wing; she was selling, or handing over, the kingdom's survival to someone using the symbol of the "Primal Fire."

  Priscila looked at the drawing of the K on her table. She remembered the deep voice she heard in the South Wing: "It’s still there... I’ll let Amelia know."

  Priscila shook her head violently, as if wanting to expel the suspicions that were beginning to poison the affection she felt for the Queen. — It’s impossible — she repeated in a whisper —. There must be a logical explanation. She wouldn't betray us like this.

  Seeking a refuge against her own thoughts, she took Máximo's letter that was waiting on the desk's wood. Her fingers, still somewhat trembling from the cold and confusion, broke the seal. Máximo’s handwriting, firm and familiar, was like a ray of sun filtering through storm clouds.

  "My dearest Pri,

  Winter has fallen upon us with a cruelty that knows neither rank nor mercy. You know well how I loathe this cold that paralyzes life; I, who seek warmth with the same urgency that you seek refuge among the pages of your beloved books and the tempered corners of the library. I find myself a captive within the walls of my own house, watching as my feet grow numb at the impossibility of running along the paths or swimming under the open sky, as if the world itself had decided to stop.

  However, my heart remains ignited by a single certainty: that of seeing you again. I miss you with an intensity that words can hardly capture. I have dedicated these long hours of confinement to tracing plans and thinking about the future; and although your foreseeing spirit abhors surprises, I beg you to grant me the benefit of the wait. I assure you, on my honor, that every one of them has been designed to see you smile.

  You are the most valuable thing this kingdom possesses, and certainly, the most precious to me. Never forget that if the shadow of winter becomes too heavy or if the weight of your doubts burdens you, I will not hesitate for a single instant to defy the snow and the storm to run to your side.

  Yours always, with all my affection, Máximo."

  A small smile, the first of the day, lit up her face. She could imagine him perfectly: complaining about the cold with that inexhaustible energy that characterized him, frustrated by not being able to train but dedicating his thoughts to planning something for her. The phrase "if you need me, I will not hesitate to go running" resonated in her mind with a special force.

  She had never needed him as much as now.

  Priscila laid the letter over her chest and closed her eyes for a moment. The warmth of Máximo’s words contrasted with the cold discovery at the warehouse. She had two realities before her: the unconditional and protective love of her best friend, and the suspicious silence of the woman who had raised her.

  She stood up with a new resolution. If her grandmother would not give her answers, and if Leandro was hidden among the shadows of the South Wing speaking with some woman named Amelia, she would not sit around waiting for winter to devour the village.

  Winter did not stop, but neither did Priscila’s will. The next morning, the palace woke up under a feverish activity that did not come from the Queen's orders, but from the Princess's determination. Priscila mobilized her personal guards to conduct an emergency census in the most affected neighborhoods, while she herself ventured into the royal kitchens.

  There, amidst the steam of broths and the scent of flour, the servants and cooks worked at her side to gather what was necessary. Priscila knew that every blanket recovered from the storehouses and every sack of grain she managed to get out of the palace was a small victory against her grandmother’s silence. She was not going to allow hunger or cold to gain ground while she had the power to prevent it.

  The following day, the carriage loaded to the roof set off again toward the village. However, something had changed in the air. As Priscila stepped down to personally deliver the food baskets and medicinal herbs, a stinging sensation began to crawl up the back of her neck.

  It was that instinct, sharp and supernatural, which had awakened in the South Wing, warning her that she was not alone. Despite the bustle of the grateful villagers and the crunch of snow under boots, Priscila felt watched.

  It wasn't the curious gaze of a peasant nor the routine surveillance of her own guards. It was a heavy, cold gaze that seemed to follow her every move from the shadows of the alleys or behind the fogged-up glass of the stone houses. Several times she stopped, a loaf of bread in her hand or a half-delivered blanket, and scanned the surroundings with her hazel eyes, now much more perceptive.

  — Is something wrong, Princess? — an elderly man asked, noticing her rigidity.

  — No... nothing — she lied, though her fingers instinctively closed over the edge of her cloak.

  The weight of that invisible gaze accompanied her throughout the entire journey. Priscila knew it wasn't paranoia; someone was evaluating her actions, someone who perhaps was not at all satisfied that the future queen was interfering in the fate that the wood carts had left empty.

  As she returned to the carriage, she glanced sideways toward the forest bordering the village. Between the dark trunks and the white mist, she thought she saw an immobile silhouette for an instant, but when she blinked, only the movement