The forest held its breath.

  Snow-laden branches rose around them, the world muffled. No wind. No birds. Just the thin crackle of ice as a stag lowered its head to the stream.

  Roderic raised his bow. The string whispered. The arrow flew; water splashed scarlet.

  “Hold,” Brandt called. “I’ll fetch it. Wouldn’t want you bathing again.”

  He trotted toward the fallen stag.

  Elowen rubbed her hands up and down her arms. The cold had burrowed deeper since dawn, sharper now, edged with a prickling unease. Her breath steamed too fast.

  Roderic’s head lifted. His eyes went to her first, then to the trees. The silence had thickened. The air felt… wrong.

  “Brandt,” he called, voice changing. “Drop the stag. I’ll manage it. Get back to the caravan—pull the wagons off the road, shield the horses, and have the men raise snow walls. Go.”

  Brandt swore, grabbed the stag by the antlers and dragged it toward them.

  Roderic’s gaze swept the dark between the trunks. Then came the first distant howl.

  The horses jolted. A second, closer growl rolled through the trees. Elowen’s grip slipped; the reins tore from her fingers. The horses bolted, the stag still lashed to one saddle, blood painting a bright trail as they vanished between the pines. Wolves gave chase, grey shadows in the snow.

  The wind cut across the clearing. Snow clawed at her face, the air turning thick enough to sting. And in the middle of it, something pulled at her—a pressure behind her ribs, insistent, turning her toward the northern trees.

  Roderic cursed, shielding his face with his arm. “We won’t reach the caravan on foot before the heart of it hits. We need to find shelter.”

  Elowen’s mind raced—forest, stream, rock. But the pull wouldn’t let go. It aligned itself with a memory: the shallow bend in the stream… the dark seam of stone behind it…

  The cave. The one they’d passed without a second glance.

  She grabbed Roderic’s sleeve, pointing through the whiteout. “There—by the stream. A cave.”

  Recognition flickered across his face. He nodded once. “Go.”

  They fought their way through the thickening snow, heads bowed. By the time they reached the cave mouth, Elowen’s lashes were dusted white.

  Inside, the air held stillness but no warmth. Cold crept up from the stone. They shook snow from cloaks and moved deeper until light thinned into a gray wash.

  Elowen’s arms would not stop shaking. She slid down the nearest wall and drew her knees up, wrapping them in her arms. If she tucked herself small enough, perhaps the cold might overlook her. Perhaps the memories would too.

  Her eyes burned. She lowered her head, letting her hair curtain her face. No sound. No weakness. Not here.

  Roderic took in the set of her shoulders, the way her hands dug into her sleeves. He stepped away without a word, disappearing into the dimmer depths of the cave.

  For a moment panic stabbed her—then he returned with an armful of old branches, bark half frozen. It took time and stubborn effort, but sparks caught. A thin, grudging flame turned to a steady one.

  Elowen edged closer, every movement stiff. She held her trembling hands over the fire, eyes closing as heat licked her skin. Tears slipped out anyway.

  Roderic watched, jaw tight. “Elowen,” he said quietly. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head, throat too thick. He shrugged off his cloak and settled it around her shoulders, his hands firm and warm as they rubbed her arms through the wool.

  Stolen story; please report.

  She swallowed and forced words out. “I’m sorry. I’m fine. I just…” The rest snagged in her chest.

  He didn’t press. He shifted his tone instead, lighter, as if easing pressure off a wound. “We’ll stay until the worst passes,” he said. “Wait it out. Then find our way back.” A sigh. “Hopefully the horses made it to the caravan with our supplies.”

  Only then did she notice his hands shaking too, when he rubbed them together near the fire.

  She moved closer, tugging the cloak wider to cover them both. Her shoulder brushed his. Roderic stilled, then took the edge of the cloak and held it in place, enclosing the small circle of heat they had carved out of the cold.

  Silence stretched. The storm keened outside; inside, only their breathing and the low crackle of fire.

  When Elowen finally spoke, it was to the flames. “The cold has always been… difficult,” she said slowly. “The first winter after Theron died was unusually cold.”

  Her hands tightened on the cloak.

  “My mother locked herself in her room,” she went on. “My father found another bottle. I couldn’t move at all. I didn’t want to.” Her mouth twisted. “There was nothing left to burn, no food. Lucan was shaking so hard his teeth knocked.” She drew a breath that scraped. “He kept telling me it would be all right. My little brother. Trying to comfort me while he froze.”

  Her voice roughened on that last word. She blinked hard, eyes fixed on the flames. “Until one night I went back out,” she said. “Streets, markets, wherever the guards weren’t looking. I told myself I had no choice. It was either that or I would risk loosing my younger brother.” Her fingers folded into her palms. “Maybe that’s why I hate winter. Too many days like that one.”

  The fire popped. She cut herself off with a short, strained laugh.

  “Anyway. That’s a dreary tale. Do you like the cold, Your Highness? Perhaps I should stop insulting your favorite season.”

  Roderic’s gaze held an understanding that made her want to wriggle free of her own skin. He looked away, toward the fire.

  “I find it easier to fight in the cold,” he answered. “Armor chafes less when you’re numb. Summer turns everything into heat and sweat.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I forget it isn’t the same for everyone.”

  He glanced back at her, some realization softening his features. “I’m sorry you ended stranded here without so much as breakfast,” he added. “We meant to be back early.”

  Elowen sniffed, the corner of her mouth twitching.

  “I’ve managed worse.”

  She reached into her cloak and produced an orange, holding it up between two fingers.

  “Old habits,” she said lightly. “My hands tend to find food.”

  Roderic huffed a surprised laugh. “You’re a menace. Where did you—”

  “Some secrets taste better kept,” she said, eyes brightening just a little. She offered it to him.

  He pushed her hand gently back. “You eat it. You’ve earned it today.”

  She hesitated, then she broke the peel. Sweetness cut through the taste of old fear. She looked at it, at him, back at the orange. Shame pricked—how easily she slipped into taking what she wanted and called it survival.

  “So,” she said, flicking the thought away. “Alenya. Your cousin with the hawk eyes.”

  His mouth pulled into a real smile at that. “More like a sister. Our fathers are brothers. She grew up at court with us. No filter whatsoever.” Fondness warmed his tone. “My father eventually had her seated as far from the high table as possible.”

  “How have I not met this terror?” Elowen asked. “Was she at the dance?”

  “No. She’s at the Eastern court this season. Good friends with Prince Aayan.” His nose wrinkled around the name.

  “You disapprove,” Elowen observed.

  “I… prefer people whose words match their intentions,” he said. “With Aayan, there is always another layer. Another game beneath the first.”

  “And that’s where we’re going.” She lifted a brow. “So I’ll meet them both.”

  “She’s looking forward to meeting you,” he said.

  “Oh?” The word slipped out more startled than she’d meant.

  “I saw her before we left Aurendal.”

  Roderic’s hands went back to the fire, shifting the embers with deliberate care, as if the wood suddenly required his full attention. “I’ll fetch more before it dies down,” he added. “The storm doesn’t seem in a hurry.”

  He stood, leaving the cloak pooled around her, and moved toward the cave mouth.

  When he returned and fed the fire, Elowen broke the orange cleanly in half and held one piece out to him.

  He glanced at it, then at her. “What’s this?” A pause. “No. Finish it.”

  She shook her head. “My brother used to say, If there’s bread for one, there’s bread for two.” Her voice softened, just slightly. “Breaking the rule would be an insult to his honor.”

  Roderic straightened. Something like reverence crossed his face.

  “In that case,” he said, solemn as a vow, “I wouldn’t dare.”

  He took the piece and bit into it.

  He chewed in silence, eyes on the fire. Elowen watched the slow, thoughtful way his jaw moved, the shadows his lashes cast against his cheeks. She wondered about the man beneath the armor. About the weight he carried. About how he saw her.

  The last thought tightened unexpectedly.

  She looked away, fixing on the fire before it could show.

  When he finished, he turned back to her, his expression warmer than before. “Thank you,” he said.

  Before she could summon the strength to pull her walls back up, she felt it—a faint tug. The same one that had drawn her to the cave in the first place.

  She tried to ignore it. It only grew stronger.

  “Elowen?” Roderic called.

  She lifted a hand absently, as if listening for something deeper within the stone.

  Without looking back, she rose and followed the pull, toward the dark corridor winding deeper into the cave.