I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and look toward the tree line, where the forest looms dark and uninviting. The path to Ashwood Cottage is about two miles up the main road, then another mile through the woods. I haven't walked it in eight years, but I remember the way. The rowan tree that marks the turnoff. The stone-lined path. The wards that made my skin prickle even as a teenager.
I could call a cab, but something tells me no one in Thornwick is going to drive me up there. Not after sunset. Not to the Ashwood estate.
I could stay at the inn. Ishouldstay at the inn. It's the sensible thing to do.
But Grandmother's letter said there were matters requiring immediate attention, and if I've learned anything about Ashwood magic, it's that "immediate" means *now*, not "after a good night's sleep and a hot breakfast."
Also, the idea of spending money I don't really have on an inn room when I technically own a cottage just up the road feels ridiculous.
I adjust my bag and start walking.
The forest is exactly as welcoming as it looks from the village.
The path is well-maintained--too well-maintained for a house that's supposedly been closed up--and lined with stones that gleam faintly in the dimming light. Protection wards, probably. Grandmother would have had them everywhere.
Snow begins to fall as I walk, soft and silent, the kind of perfect fat flakes that make everything look like a fairy tale. It catches in my hair, melts on my cheeks, clings to my eyelashes. The woods are quiet in that particular way that means things are watching but not showing themselves. Not threatening. Just... aware.
The trees are heavy with snow, branches bowing under the weight, and my footsteps crunch softly on the path. It's beautiful in that stark winter way: all white and gray and dark green, the kind of scene that belongs on a holiday card. If you ignore the ominous magical wards and the fact that I'm walking alone into the woods at dusk.
I'm aware too. Aware that I'm alone in a darkening forest, walking toward a house I haven't seen in eight years, to claim an inheritance I don't want.
But I keep walking, because turning back now would feel like admitting defeat. And I've spent too many years proving I'm not a failure to start now.
The house appears suddenly, the way things do in forests. One moment there's just trees, and the next there's a building that looks like it grew out of the landscape itself.
Ashwood Cottage. That's what everyone calls it, has called it for generations, but "cottage" is doing some serious heavy lifting. It's larger than I remembered. Two stories of dark stone and timber, with a slate roof and windows that reflect the last of the daylight like watching eyes. More small manor house than cottage, really, but I suppose "Ashwood Estate" sounds pretentious and "Ashwood Manor" implies servants we've never had. Ivy climbs the walls in intricate patterns that are definitely magical. I can feel the wards woven through them, layer upon layer of protection and privacy. Snow is already gathering on the windowsills and roofline, softening the harsh stone, making it look almost welcoming. Almost.
The garden is winter-dead, all bare branches and dormant earth buried under a thin layer of snow, but I can see the ghosts of what grew here. Herbs, obviously. Defensive plants: hawthorn, blackthorn, rowan. And underneath it all, something that makes my skin prickle.
Power. Old power, soaked into the ground like blood.
I approach the front door slowly, half-expecting it to be locked, but it swings open at my touch. Of course it does. It knows I'm an Ashwood.
The entrance hall is exactly as cold and unwelcoming as I expected.
Dark wood paneling. A floor of slate flagstones. And weapons. So many weapons. Swords mounted on the walls like trophies. A collection of daggers in a glass case. A battle-axe that looks like it could split a person in half without much effort.
This is not the home of someone who brews tea for nightmares.
"Hello?" My voice echoes in the empty space. "No one should be here but...”
"You came."
I spin around, heart hammering.
There's a man standing in the doorway to what must be the study. No, not standing. Appearing. One moment the doorway was empty, the next he's there, so still he could be carved from marble.
He's tall. That's my first coherent thought. Tall and lean and wearing dark clothing that looks expensive in a way I can't quite define. His hair is white, not gray, not silver, but pure white like fresh snow, pulled back from a face that would be beautiful if it weren't so utterly empty of expression.
No. Not beautiful.
Devastating.
So beautiful that he makes you forget how to breathe. Sharp cheekbones that could cut glass. A mouth that would be soft if it weren't pressed into such a hard line. The elegant column of his throat disappearing into his collar. Shoulders broad enough to...
I force myself to stop that train of thought immediately.
And his eyes. God, his eyes. Pale gray, like winter ice, and just as cold. They're fixed on me with a blank assessment that makes me feel like I'm being cataloged. Iris Ashwood: small, rumpled, clearly not a battle-mage. Verdict: disappointing.
