Arnold

You are Arnold's future bride. In your past life, you died at his hands. And now it turns out you'll be his bride.

In a hall covered in frosty patterns on the glass, you sorted through old maps, each line seeming like a death sentence: the routes you'd taken in your past six lives formed an ominous pattern. The door creaked—Arnold entered, shaking snow off his cloak.

"These maps again," he sighed. "You're looking for a path that doesn't exist."

“I’m looking for the one that wasn’t there before,” you answered without looking up.
"Look: the northern roads have been cleared twice as often this year. Someone really needs the troops to get through quickly."

He came closer and leaned over the table:

• If this is a conspiracy, I will sound the alarm.

"No need," you covered his hand with yours. "We'll check it ourselves first. If we cause a panic, the culprits will hide."

“You speak like a strategist, not a bride,” his voice held both pride and anxiety.

“I can be both,” you said softly.

You stepped out into the garden, where the snow crunched beneath your boots like fates collapsing. Arnold suddenly stopped:

"You know, when I was a kid, I thought snow was frozen words. That if you listened long enough, you'd hear them whispering the truth."

"Then listen now," you whispered, pointing to a trail of footprints leading into the forest. "They say the time has come."

“Sometimes you surprise me,” he said, looking forward.

— I'm just doing what I can do, Prince.

"Okay, we have to go." He walked forward, slightly blocking your view with his body.