Cestmir led his people through the wild thicket, every step a battle against pain and exhaustion. His wind-chafed face was drawn tight, his body braced against crude crutches as they pressed onward. Behind him, the exiles moved in uneasy silence, wary of distant hoofbeats or the curious eyes of bystanders who might summon the nearest authority to their trail.

  The swollen glacial river guided their path, its restless waters a barrier as much as a refuge. They scoured the banks for a shallow crossing, urgency gnawing at them—until the river bent, and they were no longer alone.

  Anneliese stood on the opposite shore.

  Her wolf loomed beside her, ears pricked toward the strangers before it. The hood of her cloak shadowed her face, but even that could not obscure the sheer number of desperate souls gathered at the water’s edge—or the frozen, uncertain hush that settled between them.

  Neither side moved. The river churned, its surface glinting in the weak light. Pebbles shifted under hesitant feet. A breathless moment stretched between them, fragile as glass.

  Then, the bullhorn sounded.

  A wail erupted from the ridgeline, splitting the valley. The call carried over the hills as Templar scouts emerged, banners snapping, dust curling in their wake.

  Panic surged through Cestmir’s exiles. Some turned and fled. Others plunged into the frigid river, gasping as the current yanked them off balance.

  Their desperate pleas reached Anneliese.

  She dove into her pouch, fingers closing around a pinch of Weddle’s enchanted sand. The grains shimmered against her skin, as fragments of her mentor’s lessons flashed through her mind—half-remembered words, scattered warnings.

  In a frantic game of trial and error, she curled her fingers, shook her hand, and blew into the gap of her wind funnel. The enchanted sand stirred, tingling against her skin. Embers flickered to life with each breath, growing hotter—until pain seared her fingertips.

  “Oh no, no, no—”

  She flinched, instinctively shaking off the burning magic—only to send the expanding net of fire hurtling toward the struggling exiles.

  After the disastrous failure of her first attempt, she steadied herself, trading shaky hands for smooth, windmill-like rotations. She exhaled steadily down her arm, from wrist to elbow, her focus narrowing to the icy air grazing her cheek. With each pass, the sensation deepened until a biting chill numbed the burn on her fingertips. Her joints stiffened, her hands trembled from the cold, but she pressed on.

  The fog thickened. Snowflakes swirled, drawn into the pull of her magic. Grimacing against the sting of frost, she finally let the pale flakes slip from her fingers, watching as they drifted onto the river’s surface. The moment they touched, the water hardened, a thin sheet of ice stretching from one rocky bank to the other.

  From the brush, startled critters darted toward the frozen bridge. One by one, they skidded and tumbled across the slick, uneven surface—some slipping helplessly into the frigid river below.

  Cestmir watched, hesitation gripping him. Weary hands lifted stones, tossing them underhand at the ice. The impacts barely left a mark. The bridge held, yet doubt lingered.

  But Gideon, reckless as ever, leapt onto the bridge. He slid and skidded, barely keeping his footing, before plunging into the upper current. Bracing himself against the slick ice, he shouted, “Come on! I’ve got you!”

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  With one hand free, he steadied the young and old, guiding them as they crept forward. One by one, the exiles formed a continuous chain, crawling across the frozen bridge toward salvation.

  Through barked orders, Cestmir kept them moving, his gaze locked on the distant ridgeline. White banners dotted the horizon, a growing tide, and behind them, a cloud of dust churned—Templars, closing in.

  On the far bank, Anneliese toiled alongside the other survivors, hauling exiles to safety. But with each hand she grasped, she felt herself slipping, drawn closer to the insidious whisper of Lascivious in the back of her mind.

  "Temptation, temptation," the demon purred, his laughter curling through her thoughts. "They’re not going to make it."

  A growl rumbled through the air.

  “No,” the wolf snarled.

  Then it surged forward. The massive beast leaped from bank to icy bridge and into the fridgit waters, scattering the impeding exiles like leaves as the wolf surged onto the oppose bank.

  “Wait!” Anneliese shouted, but the wolf ignored her.

  Near the point where the descent met leveled ground, the Templar stampede crashed into the demonic wolf-beast. Its massive, black-pelted frame slammed into the lead rider, sending horse and man sprawling. Panic rippled through the knights—horses reared, men shouted, their tight formation fracturing into chaos.

  The wolf reared back and roared, “I am the flayer of flesh, the crusher of bones! Who dares challenge me?”

  The templars answered.

  They rallied, spears and swords flashing as they closed in around the beast. The wolf wove through their ranks, tearing their formation apart. A mace swung wildly, but the beast caught it in its jaws, snapping it aside as it pressed forward, trading strike for strike.

  Yet the sheer weight of numbers took its toll. The wolf’s snarls turned to weary growls, its once-mighty strikes slowing as it struggled against the relentless tide. Step by step, the templars forced it back.

  At last, the great beast staggered and collapsed, its final breath stalling the templar advance.

  On the river, Cestmir and a guard slid across the cracking ice, their pace frantic as fissures webbed beneath them. With a final shove, the guard hurled Cestmir forward just as the ice gave way. The river swallowed them whole, its icy grip dragging them into the depths.

  Cestmir and Gideon tumbled against unseen rocks, their limbs sluggish and numb, their lungs burning for air. Just as darkness threatened to take them, a swirling blue flame engulfed them—welcoming them into the heart of an ancient pagan stronghold.

  The water dispersed harmlessly against the enclosed walls, leaving them collapsed on the stone floor, coughing, gasping, clawing for breath. Before they could process their surroundings, a flash of distorted colors swept them away—flung through space, then spat out onto the damp, grassy bank of the opposite shore.

  Through blurry eyes, Cestmir saw her.

  Anneliese stood barefoot atop the river’s current. Her hood was fully drawn, but it could not conceal her smoke-veiled eyes or the devastation in her wake. Broken Templar banners flapped in the wind, marking the graves of those who had pursued them. Scattered armor and churned mud were all that remained.

  The exiles stared, trembling. The rumors had fallen short of the truth: Anneliese was no angel. She was wrath incarnate, fury made flesh. Her smoldering gaze swept over them, weighing their worth in silence. Some fell to their knees in submission. Others averted their eyes, afraid.

  Then, her fiery stare wavered. The smoke of rage thinned, revealing something fragile—something broken. She folded in on herself, crouching as if to shield her own shame. Wracked by Lascivious’s influence and her own desires, she let out a wail—long, mournful cries that held the exiles frozen, too afraid to reach for the savior who had become their greatest fear.

  Through her tears, she raised her head, her expression almost apologetic for saving them.

  But then she saw Gideon. Pale, trembling, barely clinging to life.

  Anneliese moved without thought, hands fumbling for Weddle’s enchanted sands. Her breath hitched as she forced the magic to come. A spark flared in one palm, water gathered in the other. With shaking fingers, she combined them, weaving heat into her skin until warmth radiated from her hands.

  At first, the exiles recoiled, uncertain of her intent. But Anneliese knelt beside Gideon, her swollen eyes fixed on his frozen fingers as she pressed her palms to his skin. The warmth flowed through him, chasing the ice from his limbs, coaxing color back into his face.

  His eyelids fluttered open.

  Disoriented but alive, Gideon looked up at her. Through ragged sobs, he embraced not the myth, but the memory—the girl he once saved, now the Lady of the Rain Cave, returned to repay the favor.