Male warrior in a rustic room looks at a blond female warrior in a fur jacket standing in a snowy doorway. A wolf sleeps nearby.

The wind had been gnawing at the gatehouse walls for hours, a persistent scraping whisper against the wood and metal. Snowflakes drifted in through the small cracks at the edges of the window, collecting on the floorboards in soft, white mounds. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the overhead lights, their pale yellow glow mingling with the soft shadow of Veyra, curled along the lower bunk. Reddin had finally allowed himself a moment to relax, the rigid tension of travel and combat still lingering like a low hum beneath his skin. A knock came at the door, sharp and sudden, making him stiffen instantly. His fingers grazed the hilt of the short blade he kept by the bed, instinct sharp from years of habit. For a long moment, he stayed frozen, listening to the slight shuffle outside. Then, shaking his head, he let his hand fall away. It was likely just a survivor, though the muscle memory of ambushes refused to leave him. He moved carefully, boots quiet against the wooden floor, and reached for the door. Pulling it open, the cold air rushed in, carrying the sting of snow and the distant tang of pine from beyond the compound walls. The first thing he noticed was hair—blond, sun-bleached, catching what little remaining light there was. The woman standing there was just shy of five-foot-seven, slim, shoulders relaxed under a leather-fur jacket dusted lightly with frost. Long, beachy waves tumbled over her shoulders, the sides of her head shaved close, giving her an edgy yet See more