Awakening on her seventh day of capture, or what felt like her seventh day of capture, Vernilia still couldn’t comprehend her predicament. As a princess and sole heir to the throne of Kragalla, she expected a certain level treatment, even as a prisoner. Certainly she expected to be at least fed regularly and have access to water or wine. Being chained to the ceiling, her feet not touching the ground, while the cold iron of the manacles dug into her wrists. Left to relive herself in her own clothes and what they didn’t catch simply hitting the floor below her.
Time was hard to keep track of time during the winters of the northern wastes. Where the sun sets and doesn’t rise for another 4 months. There was but a single path that led up the mountains, a path completely blocked by snow and ice. Unpassable until it thaws in the spring. Vernilia’s captors had made it threw the pass, on the last day of light, moments before the sun set. There was no way the royal guard would be able to continue pursuit and depending on how far they were behind them, may have perished in the snow storm. Vernilia could see the flickering light of a torch causing an outline of the door to the hut to glow. The light grew brighter until the door opened and a lone man entered.