The wind was sharp enough to cut.
Serenya Vale pressed herself into the jagged shadow of a snow-slick ridge, her breath steaming in the frigid air. The cold bit at her cheeks and nose until her skin burned, but she welcomed the sting — pain meant she was still alive, still ahead of the ones chasing her.
Beyond the ridge, the forest lay frozen under the pale sweep of the moon. Heavy drifts weighed down the branches until they sagged, the silence so thick it felt unnatural.
This was not the silence of winter's peace.
This was the silence of hunters on the move.
She drew in a slow breath, the air dry enough to rasp in her throat. The dagger beneath her cloak was reassuring in its weight, but steel alone would not save her tonight. The other weapon — the one buried deep in her blood, coiled and waiting — pulsed faintly, aching to be set free.
No, she told herself, gripping the hilt until her knuckles whitened. Not unless you have no other choice.
Her mother's voice came to her then, as it had for the past fifteen years: Your magic will betray you before your enemies do. Hide it, Serenya. Always hide it.
A crunch shattered the stillness — the sound of snow compacting under boots.
Her breath froze in her chest. She flattened herself lower to the ridge, peering through a tangle of frost-stiff branches.
Three shadows moved between the trees. Their armor caught slivers of moonlight — burnished bronze plates etched with flame sigils that shimmered faintly red. Even from this distance, Serenya could feel the oppressive heat that clung to them, a heat that had no place in the dead of a northern winter.
Ashen soldiers.
Her pulse thudded hard enough to echo in her ears. She had seen them before — once, when she was seven, hiding in a root cellar while her village burned. Those soldiers had been laughing as they set fire to the snow itself. The memory was still seared into her mind.
These ones moved with the same disciplined precision, their long spears tipped with bronze, the shafts faintly glowing with runes of heat. Each step was measured, deliberate, predatory.
Serenya sank lower, praying the moonlight would not betray her.
One of the soldiers paused. Tilted his head. The air shimmered faintly around him, like heat over summer stone. His head snapped toward her hiding place.
Run.
Serenya bolted.
The forest erupted into chaos behind her — shouts in a guttural tongue, the crunch of armored boots in pursuit. She tore through the underbrush, snow exploding under her steps, branches clawing at her cloak.
A flare of heat streaked past her ear. Steam hissed where it struck the snow, turning white drifts into scalding puddles. She ducked low, heart in her throat, and veered between two close-standing pines.
She had grown up in woods like these. She knew how to weave through them without losing speed, how to use uneven ground to her advantage. But the Ashen soldiers were fast — unnaturally fast — and they had the advantage of numbers.
She heard another voice — deep, commanding — bark an order. The soldiers fanned out, cutting off escape paths before she could reach them.
Her lungs burned. The cold gnawed at the edges of her strength. The temptation to unleash her magic grew sharper with every step.
But if she did, they'd know exactly what she was.
And that was a death sentence.
She skidded down a slope slick with ice, nearly losing her footing, then darted into a gully choked with fallen branches. For a moment, the sounds of pursuit dulled. She crouched low, forcing herself to still her breathing.
The snow under her palms was crusted hard enough to bite into her skin. She brushed it aside without thinking and froze when her fingers closed around something smooth and cold.
A pendant.
Not hers.
Its surface was etched with a spiral frost rune, one she had not seen since her mother's death.
Her breath caught. She shoved it into her cloak just as a shadow fell over the gully.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
A figure stood at the rim above her, silhouetted against the moonlight. His armor was black edged in molten gold, a great sword resting casually in one hand. Even from here, she could feel the oppressive heat radiating from him.
His gaze — molten amber, steady and unyielding — found hers instantly.
The soldiers' shouts grew louder again, their boots crunching through the snow as they closed in from behind.
Serenya's heartbeat was a frantic drum. She reached for the hilt of her dagger and for the frost that roared in her blood.
The man above her tilted his head, the faintest curl of interest touching his lips.
"You run well," he said, voice deep enough to carry through the still air. "For someone who was always meant to be caught."