And scars.
So many scars. A thin white line bisects his left eyebrow. Another curves from his temple to his jaw. But most striking is the intricate tattoo that covers half his face, a snowflake pattern done in blues and whites that shifted and danced in the flickering light.
Through the center of it, a bone tusk pierces his cheekbone.
Barbarian.
The word rises unbidden, taught by tutors who spoke of the savage clans that roam the Northern Reach. Cannibals, they called them. Murderers who worship dark gods and sacrifice captives to frozen altars.
But he saved me.
"Where—" My voice comes out as a croak. I swallow hard and try again. "Where am I?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, those terrible amber eyes travel over me in a way that makes heat rise in my cheeks. Not lustful, exactly, but calculating. Like a hunter assessing wounded prey.
"Ice-Blood territory. Guest tent." Each word sounds carved from stone. "Three days' march from where you fell."
Three days?
"I've been unconscious for three days?"
"Frostbite." He gestures toward my hands, and I look down to see my fingers wrapped in some kind of greasy poultice. "Nearly lost two toes. Maybe still will."
The casual way he delivers this news makes my stomach lurch. I wiggle my feet under the furs and feel a sharp burning that confirms his assessment.
"I need to go home." The words tumble out in a rush. "My family will be worried sick. They'll think I'm dead, or worse. Please, you have to help me get back to?—"
"No."
The single syllable hits like a physical blow. Final. Absolute.
"What do you mean, no?" My voice climbs toward hysteria. "You can't just keep me here against my will. I'm Lady Cyra of House Cyrdan. My father will pay any ransom you?—"
"No ransom." He shifts position, and firelight catches on weapons hanging from his belt. An axe with a cruel curved blade. A knife longer than my forearm. "Clan law."
Clan law?
"I don't understand."
For the first time, something that might be emotion flickers across his granite features. Discomfort, maybe. Or regret.
"No human leaves the Northern Reach unchallenged."
The words drop into silence broken only by the fire's hiss and pop. Outside the tent, wind moans through what sounds like a forest of ice, and I catch the distant murmur of voices speaking in that same guttural accent.
"Unchallenged?" I whisper. "What does that mean?"
But he's already turning away, rising to his full intimidating height in one fluid motion. The tent ceiling forces him to stoop slightly, making the space feel even smaller than it already is.
"Elders decide." He pauses at what must be the tent's entrance, though I can see nothing but hanging furs. "Stay covered. Warmth comes hard in the Reach."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone with the crackling fire and my racing thoughts.
This can't be happening.
I pull the furs tighter over my shoulders and try to think. House Cyrdan has wealth enough to buy entire kingdoms, influence that reaches into every corner of the civilized world. Surely they're already searching for me. Surely Father has sent every tracker and hunter in his employ to scour the mountains.
But the storm...
