Hunting.
My hand finds the axe handle. Ice wolves are apex predators in these mountains, smart enough to coordinate attacks and patient enough to wear down prey through exhaustion. A lone traveler, injured and hypothermic, would be easy pickings.
If they haven't found her already.
The thought spurs me forward despite the storm's fury. Whatever noble lady left these tracks, she doesn't deserve to be torn apart by hungry predators. Nobody does.
Just survival instinct. Nothing more.
But even as I tell myself the lie, I know better. Something about this hunt has gotten under my skin in ways I don't fully understand. Maybe it's the scent of desperation that reminds me too much of my own dark memories. Maybe it's the challenge of tracking someone so far outside my usual experience.
Or maybe you're exactly as soft as you think you are.
The admission sits like ice in my gut, but I can't deny it anymore. Twenty-eight winters of self-reliance haven't killed every trace of human feeling after all.
Damn.
Ahead, through the swirling snow, something howls.
3
CYRA
The first thing I notice is the smell.
Smoke, yes, but not the refined cedar and cherry wood that burns in House Cyrdan's hearths. This is rougher, pine and something earthier, more primal. Animal fat, maybe, or tallow candles that sputter and hiss instead of glowing with steady elegance.
The second thing is warmth.
Blessed warmth.
It seeps through layers of coarse fur that scratch against my skin, nothing like the silk and cashmere I'm accustomed to. These pelts are thick and oily, still carrying the wild scent of whatever creatures they once clothed. Wolf, I think. Maybe bear.
Where am I?
Memory returns in fragments. The escape through servant tunnels, Shadowmere's hoofbeats against frozen ground, the terrible tumble into darkness. Snow filling my mouth and nose, cold so intense it burned like fire.
And then...
Amber eyes in a weathered face. Strong arms lifting me from certain death.
I try to sit up and immediately regret it. My head spins like a child's top, and every muscle in my body screams protest. The furs slide away from my shoulders, and I realize with mounting horror that someone has undressed me.
Completely.
My traveling dress, my chemise, even my silk stockings, all gone. In their place, I wear what feels like a rough-woven tunic that hangs past my knees, and nothing else. The fabric chafes against skin still tender from frostbite.
"You wake."
The voice emerges from shadows beyond the smoky fire that crackles in the tent's center. Deep, gravelly, with an accent that turns vowels into something almost musical. I squint through stinging eyes until the speaker takes shape.
Mother preserve me.
He's enormous. Not just tall, though he must stand well over six feet, but broad through the shoulders in a way that suggests he could snap a grown man's spine without effort. Dark hair falls past his collar in rough braids, and his beard is shot through with premature silver that makes him look ancient despite a face that can't have seen more than thirty winters.
But it's his eyes that steal my breath.
Amber, just as I remembered. Like liquid fire in the firelight, studying me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. They're set in a face carved from granite and weather, all harsh angles and brutal planes.
