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He looks at her like nobody's ever said that to him before.

We tell her about battles, too. How we've watched each other's backs since we were boys.

"So that's how you did it," she says slowly. "With the wolves. You've done that kind of thing before."

"A few times," Zarek says.

"Against wolves?"

"Worse things than wolves."

She looks between the three of us. I can see her thinking it through. Putting the pieces together. Fitting the three men who tore through a dire wolf pack with the three men sitting in front of her, drinking eggnog under a garland.

Parts of it, she clearly doesn't buy. Fair enough. Some of it does sound ridiculous, especially when I tell it.

But she's teasing us now. Asking whatever pops into her head. Calling Zarek bossy and Kaelen a big grump and me a terrible influence. She's comfortable.

She trusts us. A little.

"Your turn," I tell her. "Who are you, Elara? Where'd you come from?"

She shrugs. "There's not much to tell."

"I doubt that."

She looks down into her mug. "My parents died when I was little. I don't remember much about them. My aunt took me in and raised me. She was tough. She taught me to work hard and never expect anyone else to fix my problems." A small smile. "She'd have liked you. Well. She'd have liked Kaelen. Except, she'd have told him to get a haircut."

I gasp, wounded that she’d only like Kaelen. Kaelen looks smug.

"And then she died, too," Elara says, more quietly. "A few years ago now. So it's just me. I've got a little cottage at the bottom of the mountain. I sew. I gather herbs and sell them. I help out with whatever needs doing around the village. I manage."

She says it like it's nothing. Like it's easy.

I know it isn't. I can see it in her hands. Little scars on her fingers from needles. Calluses on her palms. A woman who's carried every single thing in her life alone and is proud of it.

It impresses the hell out of me. And I hate it. I hate thinking of her hauling water and chopping wood and sitting up late sewing by a single candle with nobody to bring her a cup of tea.

“We know you were headed for your friend’s village when we found you,” Zarek says. “But why cross the pass alone? In winter?”

Her face changes.

It's quick. A tiny flinch, then a wall slamming down. She takes a long sip of eggnog.

"Oh, you know," she says lightly. "Running away from home."

I wait.

"My village is very determined to marry me off," she says. "Whether I like it or not. The elders have been especially enthusiastic about it lately. They've found the perfect man for me. Lord Silas Brusteen." She rolls the name out in a fancy voice. "Wealthy. Handsome. Very important. Refuses to accept that I'm not interested, no matter how many times I tell him."

She smiles, but it's thin.

"Honestly, the whole village is more excited about my wedding than I am. The baker's wife has probably already picked out the cake."

She's trying to make it funny. She's doing a good job, too. If I didn't know how to read people, I might even believe her.

But I see her fingers tighten around the mug. I see her jaw set.

And I feel the room change.