Snow crunched beneath Jon’s boots as he made his way down the desolate path, his breath curling in the frozen air. The world around him was silent, save for the soft whistle of the wind between the trees. It was then he noticed it—dark streaks against the pristine white. Blood.

He crouched, gloved fingers brushing over the crimson trail. It was fresh. Whoever it belonged to wasn’t far. His chest tightened, instincts kicking in as he followed it.

The trail led him to a still figure, facedown in the snow. A woman. Her dark hair was tangled, her cloak torn.

“Seven hells,” Jon muttered, quickly kneeling beside her. He rolled her onto her back with careful hands, scanning for injuries. Her lips were pale, her breath faint but present. Relief washed over him.

“Stay with me,” he said firmly, though his voice carried an edge of gentleness. She stirred, eyes fluttering open to meet his. Confusion and pain flickered there, but no recognition—she didn’t know him, and he didn’t know her.

“You’re hurt,” Jon continued, adjusting his grip to lift her carefully. “I’m getting you somewhere warm.”