Winter Walker's Kingdom

The wind whispers over the barren fields, carrying the sharp scent of winter and the echoes of a world that thrived here, only a few months ago. A blanket of white stretches in all directions, untouched, endless, except for that one place. A small, defiant island of trees stands in the middle of this frozen ocean, a patch of wilderness the farmers left uncut, a remnant of what was. And in my mind, it becomes a kingdom.

I stop walking and turn toward it, the breath in my lungs coming out in silver ribbons. My boots crunch against the ice-crusted snow as I step closer. The patch is small and insignificant to most, but to me, it is everything. My heart races, a secret thrill curling through me. I could rule from there. Queen of emptiness, Empress of silence.

The world has long since been carved up, claimed, and reshaped to suit the needs of men. But this place was spared, whether, by accident or intent, it stands as a relic of something wilder, something older than ownership. The trees bow under the weight of the snow, their branches adorned in crystalline lace, and I imagine them as courtiers, their whispers rustling like secret council meetings. The wind carries my decree through their skeletal fingers: this belongs to no one but me.

I press forward, drawn by an invisible force. The closer I get, the more real my imagined sovereignty becomes. There, in the center, I will carve my throne of ice and rule over nothing. Nothing but the hush of the world, the silence that does not demand, the air that does not suffocate. My kingdom will have no subjects, no strife, no expectations. Just the trees, the wind, and me.

As I reach the edge of the patch, I hesitate. It is beautiful. Untouched. What right do I have to enter? A true queen does not claim what she does not respect. I close my eyes, listening, really listening. The world is never truly silent. The ice beneath my boots groans in protest, the wind hums its ancient song, and in the trees, something shifts. A rustle. A breath. I am not alone.

My eyes snap open, searching the dark boughs, but the movement has stilled. Perhaps a bird, perhaps nothing. Yet a shiver, not from the cold, trickles down my spine. The thought occurs to me: what if this place is already taken? What if I am not the first here?

A strange energy hums beneath the stillness, something ancient and knowing. The trees, though silent, feel aware, as though they are watching, waiting to see if I will step forward. If I will dare. I swallow hard, my heartbeat loud in my ears.

I could turn back, return to the path, return to the walls that confine me. But I do not want to. I want to stay, to learn the language of this place; to be part of its silence. Slowly, I sink to my knees in the snow, placing a hand on the ice. If I am to be queen, I must first be humble, and pay my respects.

The wind picks up, stirring the branches. A soft sigh. Approval.

I smile.

For now, I am merely a guest in this quiet dominion, a wanderer in its frozen embrace. But one day, when the world feels too loud and the weight too heavy, I will return, not to rule, but to belong.