The moment Soren reached his office, the mask came off.
He shut the door with controlled force, crossed the room in three long strides, and laid the parchment flat on his desk.
Then he read it again.
This time not as a commander.
As a man who knew her.
Patrol reassessment. Healer presence required. Escort mandatory.
Routine. Unremarkable. Approved.
Eris assigned. Kael signed.
And beneath it all—her hand.
Soren exhaled slowly through his nose.
Impressive. Infuriating.
She had studied the system the way she studied anatomy: not to admire it, but to find its gaps. She hadn't lied. She hadn't defied an order. She hadn't even asked him.
She had simply stepped into a space no one had thought to lock.
And she had done it knowing exactly how long it would take him to notice.
Soren's hand curled on the edge of the desk.
Cold slid in behind the anger.
Western route. Frostline perimeter.
Too far. Too exposed.
And Elena—brilliant, stubborn Elena—had planned for procedure.
Not weather.
"Damn it," he muttered once. Quiet. Lethal.
He crossed to the bell and struck it once.
Kael appeared almost immediately.
"Yes, Highness."
"She's gone," Soren said.
Kael didn't ask who. His eyes sharpened. "How long?"
Soren glanced to the window, calculating. "The patrol left a little over four hours ago."
Kael nodded once. "Then she's not far. Not yet."
Soren slid the parchment across the desk. Kael read it quickly. Then more slowly.
Then he looked up, something like reluctant admiration flickering across his face.
"She used protocol," Kael said.
"Yes."
"And Eris?"
"Did exactly what was expected of him," Soren replied coldly. "Which is why she succeeded."
Kael folded the parchment carefully. "She didn't run."
"No," Soren agreed. "She walked out with permission."
A pause.
"She'll avoid roads," Kael said. "Tree cover. Downslope. She won't waste energy."
Soren's jaw tightened. "And she's underdressed."
Kael didn't argue.
"I want to go now," Soren said.
"With a unit?" Kael asked.
Soren shook his head once. "No banners. No numbers."
Kael considered it for half a breath—then nodded.
"Two men won't raise suspicion," he said. "A patrol will."
"And she'll hear a unit coming," Soren added. "She won't hear us."
Kael turned to leave.
"Kael."
He stopped. "When we find her," Soren said, voice low and controlled, "you follow my lead."
Kael inclined his head. "Always."
A beat.
"And Soren," he added quietly, "she planned this well."
Soren's mouth curved, sharp and humorless.
"Yes," he said. "She did."
When the door closed behind Kael, Soren crossed to the map on the wall.
The Frostline was marked in pale ink.
Beyond it—nothing.
No roads. No outposts. Just blank.
He traced the edge with one finger. Anger burned—hot, sharp, undeniable.
But beneath it was something worse. Pride.
Because she had done this cleanly. Intelligently. Without chaos. Without spectacle.
She had outgrown containment in less than a week.
"You should have told me," he said to the empty room.
Not because he would have stopped her.
But because now—
Now he would have to catch up.
And Elena had never waited for anyone in her life.
...
Snow muffled everything.
Elena walked because stopping felt worse.
Each step sank a little deeper than the last, boots crunching through powder that clung to her calves, then her knees. The cold had stopped being sharp and become something dull and invasive, a presence that pressed inward with patient intent.
She told herself she was fine.
She told herself she had walked worse corridors on longer nights.
Her breath fogged thick in front of her face. She counted it at first—in, out, steady—like she used to with anxious patients. Then she lost count somewhere around the time her fingers stopped feeling like they belonged to her.
Her thoughts drifted. Not on purpose. Just… slipped.
She saw fluorescent lights instead of snow. Long hospital corridors humming with electricity. The smell of disinfectant and burnt coffee. The sound of her badge tapping against her chest as she walked too fast, always too fast, because someone was always waiting.
She remembered how winter meant scarves and complaining, not survival. How cold was something you escaped by stepping indoors, not something that followed you no matter where you went.
She almost laughed when she remembered her old apartment—too small, too expensive, perpetually cluttered. The radiator that clicked all night. The plant she kept forgetting to water. The way she used to stand at the window in the morning, mug in hand, thinking she should really buy better curtains.
She had complained so much.
About schedules. About politics. About men who couldn't decide what they wanted and women who were expected to wait while they figured it out.
Now she would give anything for a badly made cappuccino and a day that ended predictably.
Her foot caught on something hidden beneath the snow and she stumbled, catching herself just in time. Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
"Idiot," she muttered aloud, breath shaking.
She should have prepared better. She knew that. She had planned like someone who still believed competence could outpace nature. Like someone used to systems that bent if you pushed them correctly.
The North did not bend.
The wind rose again, threading through the trees with a low, mournful sound. It reminded her of monitors at night, alarms half-heard through exhaustion, the way silence could suddenly mean something had gone terribly wrong.
She hugged her arms closer to her body, realizing—too late—how thin her layers really were. Cold seeped through her boots, her cloak, into places she couldn't ignore anymore.
Annoyance flared, bright and sharp, cutting through the fog in her head.
Of course you forgot the weather, she thought bitterly. Brilliant escape. Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.
Still, she kept walking.
Because behind her were walls and men who would decide what was best for her.
And ahead—however cold, however uncertain—was something that belonged only to her.
Even if she had to reach it numb, half-frozen, and swearing at herself every step of the way.
...
Soren did not waste time on ceremony.
He and Kael left the citadel the way men did when they intended not to be noticed—no armor polished for display, no banners, no escort. Dark cloaks. Light gear. Horses chosen for endurance rather than speed.
The wind met them immediately, sharp enough to sting.
Soren felt it like a personal affront.
"She underestimated this," he said flatly, eyes on the horizon.
Kael glanced skyward, reading cloud and light the way others read ink. "The weather turned faster than predicted."
"That isn't reassurance."
"No," Kael agreed. "It's fact."
They didn't follow the patrol route.
That would have been pointless.
Instead, Kael dismounted at the first narrowing of trees and crouched, gloved fingers brushing the snow with reverent precision.
"Here," he said. "She left the group cleanly. No rush. No panic."
Soren swung down beside him. He didn't need to see the marks to know they would be there—he knew her gait now. Purposeful. Economical. Always slightly too fast for her own good.
"She walked," Kael continued. "Didn't run. That tells me she wanted distance, not pursuit."
"And she assumed Eris wouldn't notice immediately," Soren said.
Kael looked up at him. "He noticed."
"Yes," Soren replied grimly. "Just not fast enough."
They moved on foot now, leading the horses through denser cover. Snow swallowed sound. Trees bent the wind into unpredictable currents.
Kael paused again, frowning.
"She's angling west," he said.
Soren stopped.
"That's wrong."
"Yes," Kael said quietly. "The Rift is north-northeast. She's moving away from it."
Soren closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Anger surged—not explosive, but tight and dangerous.
"She's disoriented," he said. "Or she's compensating."
"Or the weather forced her hand," Kael added.
That possibility sat heavier than the rest.
They crested a small rise and saw movement below—dark against white.
A single rider, pacing a horse with sharp, restless turns.
Eris.
Soren's jaw set, but when they approached, he did not draw steel. Did not shout.
Eris saw them and went still.
Relief crossed his face first.
Then dread.
"I lost her," Eris said immediately. "I turned my back for less than a minute."
Soren dismounted and faced him. His voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous—but not cruel.
"How long?" he asked.
"An hour. Maybe more." Eris swallowed. "I followed as far as I could before the weather wiped the trail."
Kael crouched, scanning the snow again. "You didn't lose her," he said. "You delayed."
Eris flinched, then squared his shoulders. "I'll take whatever punishment—"
"Later," Soren cut in. "Right now, tell me everything."
Eris did.
The cart. The axle. The way she'd stood just off to the side, looking harmless. The moment he realized she wasn't there.
"She didn't run," Eris said, almost in disbelief. "She just… stepped out of focus."
Soren huffed a sharp, humorless breath.
"Of course she did."
Kael straightened. "She's alone now."
"Yes," Soren said. "And she's cold."
That was the worst of it.
The weather was turning—clouds thickening, wind rising in erratic bursts that erased tracks as quickly as they were made. Snowfall followed soundlessly, deceptive and relentless.
Soren mounted again, movements clipped.
"She won't stop," he said. "Not unless she collapses."
Eris looked stricken. "She didn't plan this well enough."
"No," Soren agreed. "She planned it brilliantly."
He turned his horse north, then adjusted slightly—following instinct rather than map.
Soren's hands tightened on the reins.
Fury burned hot now—not at Eris, not even at her.
At the cold. At the land. At the simple truth that intelligence meant nothing if the North decided otherwise.
"Find her," he said, voice edged with steel. "Before the weather does."
And somewhere ahead—alone among trees that whispered and snow that erased—
Elena walked on, unaware that the distance between hunter and hunted was closing fast.
Not because she was weak.
But because winter did not care who deserved to win.