After Magnus settles into his own bedroll for rest, I wait until his breathing evens out before reaching for the carved leopard. The moment my fingers close around the ice-quartz, the vision strikes.
It’s the same scene as before but sharper, more detailed. The carved leopard lies in blood-stained snow, sick with Magnus’s blood. I’m on my knees beside him, my hands glowing silver-blue but failing, the healing light sputtering against whatever mortal wound he’s taken.
“Worth it,” he whispers. “You were worth it.”
Then darkness. Cold. The carved leopard the only warm thing left, clutched in my trembling hands.
I bite my lip hard to keep from crying out, shoving the vision down with practiced effort. The carved charm feels like a countdown clock in my hand, a beautiful gift that shows me exactly what I stand to lose if I can’t change the future I keep seeing.
Magnus shifts in his sleep, murmuring something in the old Mountain Cat dialect. Even unconscious, he turns slightly toward me, as if his body seeks mine without his mind’s permission.
I clutch the carved leopard to my chest, feeling its cold seep through my clothes. Tomorrow we’ll go deeper into danger. Tomorrow we’ll get closer to the truth of what’s hunting the traders. Tomorrow I’ll have to be stronger, smarter, better at keeping him alive.
But tonight, in this small cave with firelight dancing on stone walls, I let myself admit the truth I’ve been fighting since the moment our eyes met:
I’m falling for Magnus Ironwood.
Falling for a man whose death I’ve seen multiple times, whose blood will stain the snow despite everything I try. Falling for someone who speaks of mate bonds with reverence, whocarves gifts with gentle hands that could kill, who makes my magic sing and crumbles the carefully constructed walls around my heart.
The carved leopard seems to pulse with cold in my hands, a reminder that loving him might be the very thing that destroys him. But as I finally drift toward sleep, his steady breathing the only sound besides the dying fire, I can’t make myself let go.
Not of the charm.
Not of the impossible hope that somehow, some way, I can change what’s coming.
Not of him.
6
MAGNUS
Dawn breaks cold and clear over Mountain Cat territory, but something feels wrong.
I’ve hunted these lands since I was old enough to shift. I know every valley, every ridge, every hidden path carved by generations of my people. The prey patterns should be predictable—elk moving to lower ground, rabbits in the undergrowth, hawks circling the thermals. Instead, there’s an emptiness, a wrongness that makes my snow leopard pace restlessly beneath my skin.
The scent markers are old. Too old. No fresh patrol marks, no recent kills, none of the subtle signs that mark lived-in territory. It’s as if my clan has pulled back, abandoned the outer ranges.
But that’s not what has me on edge this morning.
It’s her.
Lyra emerged from the cave this morning with the carved leopard tucked into her belt pouch, visible enough that I know she kept it, hidden enough that we don’t have to acknowledge it. She hasn’t mentioned the gift, but I caught her touching the pouch twice already, fingers ghosting over the bulge of carved ice-quartz like she’s reassuring herself it’s still there.
My snow leopard purrs every time she does it.
The beast has become impossible to control around her. It wants things from her, terrible, wonderful, impossible things. Wants to know what her skin tastes like. Wants to discover if her hair is as soft as it looks. Wants to test if the storm-touched magic that dances with mine could create something unprecedented if we truly let our powers merge.
Wants to claim her. Mark her. Make her ours in every way Mountain Cat tradition recognizes.
I force the thoughts down as we navigate a particularly treacherous section of trail. The path narrows to barely a ledge, ice-slick rock on one side, a deadly drop on the other. I should be focused on the route, on tracking the missing traders, on the wrongness in my territory.
Instead, I’m watching Lyra move with that dancer’s grace, noting how she places each foot with perfect precision, how she doesn’t even hesitate at the exposure. Storm Eagles are creatures of the air ai I knew that heights don’t frighten them. But she moves like more than just a Storm Eagle. She moves like a predator. Like someone who belongs in wild places.
Like someone who belongs with me.
“Tell me about Mountain Cat magic,” she says suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence we’ve fallen into. “The ice-sigils. I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”
I glance back at her. Most people fear our magic of ice that burns, cold that can stop a heart, frost that can track prey across impossible distances. But she looks fascinated, not frightened.
