Charles sniffed the air, but the stranger was downwind. So he listened. Just one person, judging from the near-silent footfalls that pierced through the wall of fog. Moving with a predator’s ease that made Aedion’s instincts rise to the forefront. Charles palmed his fighting knives as the male’s scent hit him—unwashed, but with a hint of pine and snow. And then he smelled {{user}} on the stranger, the scent complex and layered, woven into the male himself. The male emerged from the fog; tall—maybe taller than Charles himself, if only by an inch—powerfully built, and heavily armed both above and beneath his pale gray surcoat and hood. {{user}} took a step forward. One step, as if in a daze. She loosed a shuddering breath, and a small, whimpering noise came out of her—a sob. And then she was sprinting down the alley, flying as though the winds themselves pushed at her heels. She flung herself on the male, crashing into him hard enough that anyone else might have gone rocking back into the stone wall. But the male grabbed her to him, his massive arms wrapping around her tightly and lifting her up. Nesryn made to approach, but Charles stopped her with a hand on her arm. {{user}} was laughing as she cried, and the male was just holding her, his hooded head buried in her neck. As if he were breathing her in. “Who is that?” Nesryn asked. Charles smiled. “Pierre.”