The gates opened at dawn without ceremony—just the low grind of iron and the breath of horses fogging the air like smoke.
Elena stood at the threshold of the citadel in practical layers and a plain cloak, braid pinned tight, expression composed enough to satisfy any suspicious soldier and any bored noble who happened to be watching from a window.
Inside her chest, her heart beat like it was trying to escape first.
Eris waited beside a dark mare, reins looped neatly over his glove, posture infuriatingly calm.
He looked Elena over once—boots, cloak, gloves—then narrowed his eyes as if assessing whether she had smuggled herself additional trouble.
"You remember how to sit a saddle," he said, eyeing her like he fully expected gravity to take this opportunity to betray her.
She nodded. "I had lessons. Briefly."
His brow lifted. "From whom?"
She glanced at him. "You."
He stared.
"You were very patient," she added thoughtfully. "The horse was not. It judged me silently and at length."
A surprised snort escaped him. "So you won't panic."
"Oh, I'll panic," she said cheerfully. "I just won't fall off while doing it."
Eris shook his head, muttering, "Saints preserve me. I trained you."
Eris's mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile he allowed himself when he was pretending he wasn't fond of her.
"Try not to die," he muttered, and held the stirrup steady as she mounted.
"Excellent," Elena said. "My favorite instruction. Very specific. Very supportive."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh if he weren't a Sentinel and therefore morally obligated to pretend joy was a myth.
The patrol formed up—six men, one cart, no banners. No Prince. No ceremony. Just a line of dark figures moving through pale morning.
Routine reassessment, they'd called it. Environmental correlation.
Elena kept her chin down, posture steady, slate secured beneath her cloak.
She looked like she belonged. That was, perhaps, the most dangerous part.
They rode out into open land, the citadel shrinking behind them until it became stone against snow, then finally a shadow in the distance.
The air changed beyond the walls.
Cleaner. Sharper. Less human.
Elena inhaled and felt something in her chest loosen with the sheer audacity of it.
Outside.
Eris rode half a step closer than necessary, as if proximity could substitute for control.
He didn't loom. He didn't threaten. He simply existed at her side in a way that made it very difficult to forget she was being watched.
"You're thinking," he said after a mile.
"I'm always thinking," Elena replied.
"That's the problem."
She glanced at him. "Is it exhausting being right all the time?"
"It is exhausting being responsible for you," he answered solemnly, then paused. "Also—yes."
Despite herself, Elena smiled.
It felt wrong, smiling when her chest still hurt. When the word containment still echoed under her skin. When the King's envoy's voice still sat like silk around a blade.
But Eris didn't know any of that. Eris knew only that he had orders and a woman who kept trying to outwalk them.
And somehow, he had become… kind.
Not soft. Never soft.
But kind in the way of a man who had watched her bleed and decided she was worth guarding without resentment.
That was what made this harder.
Elena kept her eyes forward, her posture relaxed, her breathing steady. She made notes when the patrol stopped. Asked questions when it was expected. Let Eris hover half a step too close like a shadow he pretended was incidental.
She waited.
The opportunity came the way most real opportunities did—not dramatically, not heroically, but because someone else was tired.
The cart axle froze.
It happened with a sharp crack and a curse loud enough to echo off the snowbanks. The patrol captain dismounted immediately, soldiers clustering around the cart in a knot of irritation and cold fingers.
"Give me a minute," the captain snapped. "Eris—keep an eye—"
"I've got her," Eris replied automatically, already turning back toward Elena.
That was the mistake.
Because having her had become routine.
Elena had learned long ago that people guarded what they expected to move.
So she didn't move.
She stayed exactly where she was, just at the edge of the group, slate tucked under her arm, head bent as if rereading her own notes.
The wind rose slightly, rattling branches farther downslope.
"Don't wander," Eris said absently, eyes flicking between her and the cart.
"I won't," Elena said, truthfully.
She didn't wander.
She waited until Eris turned fully toward the captain.
Then she took three steps backward.
Not hurried. Not sneaking.
Just… stepping out of focus.
Snow swallowed sound. Trees bent the wind. The land itself conspired with anyone patient enough to let it.
Another step.
Another.
When she turned, finally, and walked downhill between the trees, no one noticed.
Not immediately.
Elena did not run.
Running was for people who wanted to be caught.
She walked until the slope steepened, then angled sideways, letting the trees close around her like a held breath released.
Only when the patrol was out of sight did she stop.
Her heart pounded—not from fear, but from success.
"Oh," she whispered to herself, incredulous. "That actually worked."
...
Then the wind cut through her cloak like a blade.
She inhaled sharply.
And immediately realized—
She was underdressed.
Not catastrophically. Not foolishly. But optimistically.
She had planned like someone expecting to be gone an hour. Not someone walking into open wilderness in winter.
She flexed her fingers. Cold bit deeper now, creeping past gloves, past resolve.
"Fantastic," she muttered. "Brilliant work, Elena. Escape the most secure citadel in the North and forget to pack for weather."
She pulled her cloak tighter and kept walking. Turning back was not an option.
Behind her were walls, protocol, and men who would put her somewhere "safe."
Ahead was forest. Snow deepened as the trees thickened, branches heavy and creaking softly under new weight. The world dimmed—not darker, exactly, but quieter, as if sound itself had been padded.
Elena's boots sank with each step. Her calves burned. Her breath fogged, then crystallized at the edges.
She pressed on.
Because somewhere out here—beyond patrol routes, beyond maps that ended in vague lines—was the place the stones had answered.
And she needed to know why.
A sound drifted through the trees.
Not wind. Not quite.
Elena stopped.
Listened.
Something between a scrape and a low, resonant hum—too rhythmic to be natural, too distant to identify.
Her pulse spiked.
"Okay," she whispered. "Not ideal. But we're committed now."
She adjusted her direction slightly, angling toward where the land dipped—toward memory rather than certainty.
Snow brushed her knees now. Then her thighs.
Her steps slowed.
Her annoyance flared hotter than fear.
"This," she muttered through clenched teeth, "is why people make lists."
Her fingers were numb. Her face burned. She could feel cold settling into places she hadn't considered.
And still—
She walked.
Because turning back meant surrender. And stopping meant freezing.
Somewhere far behind her, Eris would realize.
Not yet. But soon.
And somewhere deeper still, beneath stone and snow and whatever rules governed this world—
The Rift waited. Not calling. Not glowing. Just present.
Elena swallowed, straightened her spine, and kept moving.
Annoyed. Cold. Underdressed.
And more determined than she had ever been in her life.
Because if the world intended to cage her—
She would at least understand the lock.
...
Soren realized Elena was gone because the report was too perfect.
He was standing in the council antechamber, one hand braced on the table, listening with half an ear as the King's envoy droned on about jurisdiction and "shared concern," when the parchment caught his eye.
Plain. Unadorned. Efficient.
Healer Advisory — Environmental AssessmentWestern Route, Frostline Perimeter
He picked it up without thinking.
Read the first line.
Then the second.
By the third, his jaw tightened.
Not because it was wrong. Because it was hers.
He knew her cadence now. The way she stacked observations. The way she stripped drama from language until only fact remained. The way she avoided conclusions while guiding the reader inexorably toward one.
Pattern suggests non-infectious, non-traumatic etiology.Recommend field correlation of terrain exposure to rule out environmental contributors.Delay may increase risk of permanent neurological impairment.
Signed at the bottom, precise and unassailable:
Healer Advisor.
Not Elena.Not Lady Elena.Not anything that could be challenged.
Soren felt it then—the cold clarity sliding into place.
She hadn't escaped. She'd authorized herself.
He lowered the parchment, face unreadable.
"Yes," he said absently when the envoy paused, "continue."
The envoy did, satisfied, unaware he had already been dismissed in every way that mattered.
Soren said nothing more. He did not react. He did not look again at the report.
He waited.
Only when the meeting ended—only when doors closed and footsteps faded—did he move.