The wind scraped across the hills like a whetstone against bone.

  Maisie kept her head low, scarf wound tight, her brown eyes narrowed against the sting of ice crystals that bit at her lashes. Each breath turned to mist, freezing in the folds of her coat.

  Her boots crunched over crusted snow, sinking with every third step into a slush-ridden hollow that soaked her socks and wicked the heat from her toes.

  Her thighs ached. Her shoulders throbbed from the pack that no longer rode quite right—too heavy on one side, dragging with every slope they climbed.

  Behind her, Dax Hailcrest moved like the cold wasn’t worth noticing.

  He didn’t speak. Just walked, steady and sure-footed, weaving between trees like the terrain bent for him. When she paused to adjust her straps, he paused too—but always at a distance. He offered no commentary, no judgment. That silence unnerved her more than any words would have.

  They climbed for hours. Snow fell in veils, quiet and endless. No sky. No sun. Just the heavy white of Auroria pressing in from all sides.

  By dusk, they took shelter beneath a crooked overhang where rock and snow formed a half-dome. It wasn’t warm, but at least the wind broke around it. Dax cleared the space without asking. Gathered wood. Struck a fire. She watched him kneel over the kindling, coaxing flame from frost, his breath steady while hers came ragged.

  Maisie forced herself to eat half a ration bar. Her fingers trembled around the edges of it. She hated the sound of her own chewing in the silence.

  Dax handed her a tin cup of hot water brewed from melted snow. She took it—reluctantly—and sipped.

  Then he pulled something from his pack. A folded length of dark wool, fur-lined, stitched along the edges with pale thread. A cloak. Heavy. Thick. Warm.

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  His hands held it out without a word.

  Maisie blinked.

  “What’s that for?”

  Dax’s voice was even.

  “You’re freezing.”

  She stiffened.

  “I’m accustomed to working in cold environments.”

  He said nothing.

  Maisie didn’t move. Her eyes dropped to the cloak, then flicked back to him. Her jaw clenched.

  In her mind, Calren’s voice slithered back:

  “Recognition in our profession requires collaboration.”

  And Serenya’s laugh. Her divine body. Her ease.

  Maisie’s breath hitched as she forced herself to speak.

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  Dax nodded once. No offense taken. No pressure given.

  He placed the cloak beside the fire, not near her, but within reach. Then sat on the opposite side of the flames, back against the rock wall, and began sharpening a knife he’d used to carve tinder. The sound was soft. Rhythmic. Like wind across slate.

  Maisie curled her arms around her knees and tucked her chin into the folds of her coat. She was not fine. Her fingers burned. Her joints ached. Her scalp felt tight from wind exposure.

  But at least she wasn’t weak.

  At least she wasn’t like them.

  The fire snapped, filling the half-dome with the scent of singed pine and melting snow. Dax didn’t budge.

  Maisie’s eyes wandered to the folded cloak again, then back to the flame.

  They shared no warmth—literal or emotional. Just proximity, smoke, and silence.

  Outside, the snow kept falling. But somewhere far to the south, a constellation of stars was shifting. A cycle nearing alignment.

  And in the shadow between two lives—hers and his—they began to move forward. Cold. Distant.

  But together.