My gaze flicks up to the man again. A bruise is already blooming where I struck him, darkening the skin along his temple. He gives a small, resigned nod, as if to confirm it all.
I look back down.
My darling, this is the fresh start we’ve always wanted. Away from the cold. Away from the memories that cling to that patch of dirt as stubbornly as the winter itself. I love you,daughter, and I can’t wait for you to join me soon.
All my love, Father.
The letter lowers in my trembling hand.
I stare ahead, taking in the wagons once more. Our chairs. Our table. Our kitchen crates. Our life reduced to a handful of worn furniture and boxes of memory that would mean nothing to anyone else, all of it waiting to be hauled somewhere new.
A new home on land of our own.
From Luceran.
He told me the winter would never end.
So instead, he found us somewhere it could not reach. Somewhere warm. Somewhere untouched by frost and grief and blood. Somewhere my father and I could begin again.
My fingers curl tight around the parchment until it crumples against my palm.
He was going to set me free. He had already decided. Before last night ever came.
I glance toward the wagon, and there, tucked into a crate is my book.
The broom slips from my hand without me noticing, hitting the mud with a dull thud as I drift closer, boots dragging. The men don’t speak. They only watch, trading quiet, uneasy looks.
I reach into the crate and pull my book free.
My fingers know it by heart.
I flip through the pages, barely seeing the words until they find me anyway.
In the face of danger, in the grip of despair, when it would be easier to run than stand and fight, the lovers remain unbreakable. The hero takes her into his arms and kisses her, and the heroine lifts her foot from the ground, losing herself entirely in his embrace. Then they live happily ever after.
My throat tightens. I snap the book shut, clutching it to my chest for one aching heartbeat.
What have I done?
The answer claws through me.
I spin on my heel and run.
Mud splashes as I sprint back to the mare, grabbing her mane and hauling myself into the saddle in one desperate motion. She rears briefly, snorts, then stamps her hooves, muscles bunching beneath me as she turns.
“Wait!” the man calls from the porch. “Do you want me to tell your father anything?”
I glance back once, wind already tearing at my hair.
“Tell him I love him,” I shout. “Tell him to be happy.”
Then I click my tongue and press my boot to the mare’s side.
She surges forward, breaking into a run, carrying me away, toward frost and regret and a love I might already be too late to save.
I ride past everything once more, and when I pass the Wayside again, I realize how utterly exhausted I am. But I cannot stop. I ride on, and instead of a bed, I rest against the mare’s neck, stealing an hour of shallow sleep while Mink and Fitz guide her by the mane and stay alert and ready to catch me in case I tumble off.
They wake me when the sleet thickens, just as the castle looms ahead.
