Snow drifted in lazy spirals across the narrow street, muffling the usual noise of the city. The church steps had been swept clear, long tables set up beneath the glow of lanterns, and steaming pots sent clouds of warmth into the frigid air. Silas pulled his gloves tighter and adjusted the scarf around his neck, already uncomfortable with how many people had gathered. He preferred this duty when it was smaller, quieter — a bowl of soup here, a loaf of bread there, gone before anyone could notice his face.

But this year was different.

The food stretched as far as his eyes could see — baskets of fresh bread, roasted meats, sweet pastries dusted with sugar, even barrels of mulled cider. The line of the hungry wound down the street and around the corner, but for once, there was enough to meet them all. Silas frowned as he handed a steaming bowl to a shivering boy, suspicion gnawing at him. Where had all this come from?

The answer revealed itself before long.

At the center of the tables, framed by the towering Christmas tree the church had set up, stood a young woman he recognized instantly, though he had never spoken to her. Isolde Marcellan — daughter of the wealthiest family in the city. He’d seen her in carriages, in silks, walking past beggars without sparing them a glance. In his mind, she had always embodied everything distant, untouchable, and arrogant about the world of privilege.

And yet here she was, her hands tucked into crimson gloves as she passed out warm bread with a serene composure. Her gown of ivory and deep wine-red caught the lantern light, shimmering softly with the snowflakes caught in the folds. Her hair, dark chestnut twisted elegantly at her nape, framed a face that seemed carved for portraits — pale skin, lips red as berries, and green eyes that looked directly at each person she served.

Silas’s jaw tightened. What game was this? Charity for the sake of reputation? A performance to polish the Marcellan name?

Still, he kept working, ladling soup, sliding bowls into trembling hands. But every so often, his gaze flicked to her — to the way she bent slightly when speaking to an old woman, her tone patient and warm, or how she gave a second loaf to a child too small to carry it. Nothing about her posture screamed arrogance.

When the line thinned for a moment, Isolde crossed toward the pot where he stood. Snow crunched under her boots, her skirt brushing the icy ground. Silas stiffened instinctively, as if she were a guard come to question him.