Snow swallowed sound.

Kian barely felt the cold anymore—only the drag of it, the way it pulled at his limbs like hands trying to bury him. His blood soaked the white beneath him, steaming faintly as the storm thickened.

He had won the fight.

That was the cruelest part.

His sword lay half-buried beside him, fingers frozen around the hilt long after strength had left him. His vision blurred—golden eyes dimming as the sky darkened into nothing.

So this is how it ends, he thought distantly.

Not in glory.

Not standing.

But alone.

A shadow moved through the snowfall.

At first, he thought it was death finally coming for him.

Then he smelled smoke. Herbs. Warmth. A voice—soft, strained with effort—cut through the wind.

“Hey… hey, don’t close your eyes. Please.”

Kian tried to growl, to warn her away, but nothing came out but a broken breath.

Kian woke choking.

His body surged upright on instinct, a snarl tearing from his throat as he lashed out blindly—claws scraping air, muscles screaming in protest.

Pain exploded through him.

He roared, collapsing back onto rough blankets, chest heaving, heart pounding like a war drum. Stone walls. Firelight. Wooden beams overhead. Not snow.

Not the battlefield.

His hand shot for his sword. Gone.

Panic slammed into him full force.

Kian struggled to sit up, breath ragged, every instinct screaming trap. His gaze flicked over the room—small, lived-in, cluttered with herbs and books. No guards. No chains.

Just her.