The tavern was still asleep. No clink of glasses, no murmur of patrons, only the faint sigh of the wind pressing against the shutters. The Matron stood behind the bar, polishing a single glass with slow, deliberate circles. Her gaze drifted — not to the door, not to the fire — but to the man at the counter.
He was arranging bottles on the shelf, his movements unhurried, precise. Blonde hair caught the lantern light in pale gold threads; his eyes, when they flicked toward her briefly, were the color of a winter sky before a storm. He nodded once, a silent acknowledgment, then returned to his task.
The sound came then — faint, muffled, but sharp enough to pierce the quiet. Boots in snow. Her hand stilled on the glass. The sound was nothing unusual in a place like this, but it was enough to pull her backward, into a memory she had never spoken aloud.
It had been the kind of winter that seemed determined to bury the world. Snow deep enough to swallow a man to the knee, wind sharp enough to flay the skin from bone. She had been younger then, her loyalty to the Demon Queen's kingdom unshaken, her orders clear: find the Hero who had shattered the Queen's army, track him, and report his location. She was no soldier, but she had a talent for moving unseen, for following trails others missed. It was why they had sent her.
The tracks were fresh — a stagger in the stride, a heavier imprint on the left foot. He was wounded. She should have been pleased. Instead, there was a strange tightness in her chest, a whisper of unease she ignored. The wind shifted, carrying voices. Not his. She crouched behind a snow-laden pine, peering through the branches. A group of mercenaries — not the Queen's soldiers, but scavengers who hunted the same prey for coin — had found him first.
He stood in the clearing, sword in hand, breath ragged. Even from a distance, she could see the exhaustion in his stance. The mercenaries circled, grinning like wolves.
She should have stayed hidden. She should have let them do the work for her. Instead, she stepped forward. It happened fast. One of the mercenaries lunged, and the Hero moved — not toward his attacker, but toward her. She hadn't even realized one had broken from the circle until the blade was already swinging for her throat.
Steel met steel with a ringing crack. He shoved the attacker back, placing himself between her and the others. "Run," he said, voice low, urgent. She didn't.
The fight was brutal in its efficiency. He moved like a man who had fought too many battles, each strike precise, each parry costing him more than he could afford. She found herself fighting too — not against him, but alongside him, her dagger finding gaps in armor, her body moving in instinctive tandem with his.
When the last mercenary fell, the clearing was silent again. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, settling on the crimson stains at their feet.
He turned to her, eyes sharp, as if assessing whether she was friend or foe. "You're hurt," she said before she could stop herself. "So are you," he replied, though she wasn't. Then his knees buckled.
She caught him before he hit the ground, the weight of him heavier than she expected. His breath came in shallow bursts, each one a visible cloud in the cold. Blood seeped through the fabric at his side, warm against her gloves.
Voices again — this time, the Queen's patrols. Closer. If they found him, they'd kill him. That was what she had been sent to allow. That was what loyalty demanded. She looked down at him. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, but there was no fear in them. Only a strange, quiet resignation. She didn't think. She just moved.
The cabin was an old hunter's shelter, half-buried in snow, its roof sagging under the weight of the season. She dragged him inside, the door groaning shut behind them. The air was stale, but it was shelter. She lit a lantern, the flame flickering as if startled to life.
For the first few days, he slept more than he woke. She changed his bandages, coaxed him to drink broth, and listened to his fevered murmurs. Sometimes he said her name. Sometimes another word she didn't know — not a name, but something that sounded like home.
When he was lucid, he was quiet. Watchful. He never asked why she was helping him, but there was a flicker in his eyes — as if he knew she had once been his hunter.
The snow outside never stopped. It pressed against the windows, muffling the world, making the cabin feel like the last place left alive. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of pine smoke and the faint metallic tang of blood. She kept the lantern burning low, its light pooling in soft gold across the floorboards, as if too much brightness might draw the wrong eyes.
Weeks became months. The wound healed, but he didn't leave. Not yet. They fell into a rhythm: chopping wood, cooking, tending the fire. He repaired the cabin's broken latch with a knot she'd never seen before, tied the woodpile with cord in a pattern that looked almost like a sigil. When she asked where he'd learned it, he only said, "Far from here."
Sometimes he disappeared into the snow for hours, returning with game or with nothing at all. His eyes would be distant on those days, as if he'd been walking somewhere far beyond the forest. She never asked. She wasn't sure she wanted the answer.
At night, they sat by the fire. Sometimes they talked about the weather, about the taste of the stew, about nothing at all. Sometimes they didn't. The silences were not empty; they were full of things neither dared to say.
She began to notice the small things: the way his gaze softened when she laughed, the way his hand would hover near hers on the table before pulling back. The way he always positioned himself between her and the door, even here, even now.
By the eighth month, the snow had begun to melt in the afternoons, only to freeze again at night. He grew restless. She could feel it in the way he paced the cabin, in the way his eyes lingered on the horizon. The world was calling him back.
One evening, she found him outside, sharpening his sword. The sound of steel on whetstone was steady, almost meditative. "You're leaving soon," she said.
He didn't look up. "I have to."
"Because of her?" she exclaimed, pushing back tears.
He paused, then shook his head. "Because of everyone."
She wanted to ask what that meant. She didn't. Instead, she said, "And what about me?" His hand stilled on the blade.
"You'll be safe here."
"That's not what I asked." He looked at her then, and for a moment she thought he might close the distance between them. But he only said, "Some truths are more dangerous than lies."
The last storm of the season came in the eleventh month. They were trapped inside for three days, the wind howling, the lantern light flickering like a heartbeat. On the second night, she told him she owed him her life.
"I couldn't let them touch you," he said, and meant it.
"You didn't even know me."
"I didn't need to."
She almost told him then. Almost said the words that had been building in her chest for months. But he reached across the table, his hand warm over hers, and said, "If I let you love me, I'll take more from you than I have any right to."
His eyes were full of something she couldn't name. Later, she would understand it was the weight of knowing he would leave — and that he belonged to a world she could never touch.
In the morning, he was gone. No footprints in the snow, no sign of departure — only the faint scent of winter air lingering in the cabin, and the memory of his hand brushing hers as he passed her the empty bowl the night before.
The tavern's door creaked open, pulling her back to the present. A traveler stepped inside, stamping snow from his boots. Behind the counter, the blond-haired man looked up, offering the guest a quiet greeting. His voice was the same as it had been in that cabin — low, steady, carrying something unspoken beneath the words.
She turned away before he could see her watching, setting the polished glass back on the shelf. The lantern light swayed gently, casting her shadow long across the floor. She busied herself with the small rituals of opening — checking the fire, straightening the chairs, adjusting the curtains — anything to keep her hands moving, to keep her from looking at him again.
But she could feel him there. Not just in the room, but in the way the air seemed to shift around him. The same quiet gravity he'd carried in the cabin, the same awareness that made her certain he could name every sound, every movement, every heartbeat in the space without turning his head.
A laugh from the traveler at the counter drew her attention. He was speaking to the Hero — no, to the man — about the weather, about the road ahead. She watched the way he listened, leaning in slightly, his expression open but measured. That was how he'd listened to her, too. As if every word mattered, even the ones that didn't.
The traveler left a few bills on the counter and stepped back into the snow. The door closed, and the tavern was quiet again. He glanced toward her then, just for a moment, and there it was — that flicker. The one that made her chest tighten. The one that said he remembered every moment of that year, just as she did.
She wanted to cross the room. To stand where the traveler had stood, to ask him if he ever thought about the cabin, about the snow pressing against the windows, about the nights when the only sound was the fire and their breathing. She wanted to ask if he regretted leaving without a word.
Instead, she turned to the shelves behind her, running her fingers along the worn spines of the bottles.
"Busy day ahead," she said, her voice steady.
"Maybe," he replied. His tone was unreadable, but she thought she heard something beneath it — something that might have been longing, or might have been nothing at all.
The lantern-light swayed again, and for an instant, she could almost smell pine smoke. Almost hear the wind against the cabin walls. Almost feel the warmth of his hand over hers.
She closed her eyes, just for a heartbeat. When she opened them, he was looking away, already reaching for another glass to polish.
She heard the faint clink of glass against wood as he set the tumbler down. "You still open early," he said, his voice low, almost conversational.
"Some habits don't change," she replied, not turning. Her fingers lingered on the neck of a bottle she didn't need.
A pause. Not the kind born of awkwardness, but of two people measuring the space between them.
"You kept the lantern," he said. She glanced at it — the same brass frame, the same faint dent near the base.
"It still works."
"It always did."
The words were nothing, and yet they weren't. She could feel the weight of them, the way they pressed against the air. She moved to the counter, placing the bottle down with deliberate care. He was closer now, though she hadn't heard him step forward. The scent of him — faint smoke, cold air, something she couldn't name — brushed against her.
"You've changed the chairs," he said, running a hand along the back of one.
"They were splintering."
"They were fine."
"They were dangerous." He smiled, just barely.
"So was the cabin."
Her breath caught, but she didn't let it show. "The cabin's gone."
"I know."
Silence again, but this time it was thick, like snow-laden air before a storm. She could feel the words they weren't saying pressing at the edges, threatening to spill.
He reached for the glass, his fingers brushing the counter where hers had been moments before. "You still make the tea the same way?"
She nodded. "Some habits don't change."
Their eyes met then — not long, not enough for anyone else to notice — but in that glance was the whole winter. The firelight. The wind. The nights when the world was only the two of them.
She turned away first, reaching for the kettle. "It'll be ready in a minute." He didn't answer, but she could feel his gaze on her back, steady and unflinching.
And she knew — as surely as she knew the sound of snow falling — that if she turned now, if she said even one word too many, the truth would come spilling out.
So she didn't.