Sejm and I left a week ago. The warmth of our homestead is starting to fade from memory. The landscape is cold and harsh. Howls from beasts I've never heard before echo through the trees. This is a very different winter. We've stayed out of sight, following the path that the refugees took southward. Bodies line the road. Bloody remnants are just about everywhere—beast and norn alike. I don't know how many they lost on their way, but that number is likely significant. We've a few weeks until we arrive at Saldistead. One of the survivors said that someone must've stayed behind. We may be greeted by many or none, but this entire ordeal paints a very grim image. I worry that we're too late. I worry that I may never see Arina or Na again. I got one final look at them before leaving. Na, tucked under a pile of blankets and fur; a queen hidden beneath a pile of snow. Arina was propped up on top, playing with a handwoven doll from Gaerta. Both of them lit only by the fire of our stove. I wish I could paint them like that.