CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Winter's Edge
The Frostmarch earned its name.
The mountain pass stretched before them, a winding ribbon of white cutting through peaks that scraped the sky. Snow blanketed everything—the rocks, the sparse trees, the very air itself. Even in what should have been late summer, winter held dominion here.
"Thirteen months," Orion muttered, his breath crystallizing in the frigid air. "Thirteen months of running, and we end up here."
"It's beautiful," Nera said. She was tucked inside his coat, only her head visible, her usual glow dimmed against the cold. "In a deadly, inhospitable, probably-going-to-kill-us sort of way."
"That's one word for it."
"I prefer 'dramatic.' The landscape has flair."
"The landscape has hypothermia."
"Also flair."
They had joined a merchant caravan three days ago, at the last trading post before the pass. Safety in numbers—the Frostmarch was treacherous even in good conditions, and the creatures that lived here didn't distinguish between prey and traveler.
The caravan consisted of four wagons, twelve guards, and a handful of passengers desperate or foolish enough to attempt the northern crossing. Orion and Nera had presented themselves as adventurers seeking work in the northern territories. No one asked too many questions. In the Frostmarch, everyone was running from something.
"How much longer?" Nera asked.
"Three more days, if the weather holds. A week if it doesn't."
"And if we don't make it through?"
"Then we find shelter and wait for spring." He didn't mention that spring was months away, or that waiting meant being trapped—easy to find for anyone still following their trail. Some things didn't need to be said.
The caravan master called for a halt as the sun began its descent. They'd reached a natural alcove in the mountainside, sheltered from the worst of the wind. Time to make camp, eat what they could, and pray they'd see morning.
It was, Orion reflected, a hell of a way to spend their anniversary.
4 years married and 2 years running.
He didn't mention that either.
* * *
The camp came together with practiced efficiency.
Wagons arranged in a defensive circle. Fires lit at strategic points. Guards posted at the perimeter, watching the tree line for movement. The merchants and passengers huddled near the warmth, sharing food and stories to pass the time.
Orion found himself seated between a retired adventurer named Gareth and a hooded figure who hadn't spoken more than ten words since joining the caravan.
"First time through the Frostmarch?" Gareth asked. He was old—sixty at least, with a face like weathered leather and hands that still moved with a fighter's precision. The kind of man who had survived long enough to earn every wrinkle.
"That obvious?"
"You keep looking at the mountains like they might attack you." Gareth chuckled. "They might. But probably not tonight. Tonight's too calm. It's the quiet ones you have to watch."
"The quiet nights?"
"The quiet everything. Mountains, weather, forests." He stirred the fire with a stick. "Nature doesn't do quiet unless it's planning something. Twenty years of adventuring taught me that."
"What brings you north?"
"Grandchildren. My daughter married a fur trader in Thornhaven. Haven't seen the little ones in three years." Gareth's expression softened. "Getting too old for this nonsense, but family's family. You make the trip."
"Thornhaven," Orion repeated. The name had come up in their research—a remote city at the edge of civilization, known for harsh winters and harder people. "What's it like?"
"Cold. Honest. The kind of place where everyone knows everyone else's business but has the decency to pretend they don't." Gareth glanced at Nera, who was examining a frost crystal with fascinated intensity. "Your wife seems enchanted by the weather."
"She finds beauty in strange places."
"Good quality in a partner. Keeps things interesting." The old adventurer was quiet for a moment. "You two running from something?"
Orion tensed. "What makes you say that?"
"Thirty years reading people. You've got the look—always watching, never relaxing. And her—" He nodded toward Nera. "—she's not what she seems, is she? Too old behind the eyes for someone so young."
"You're very observant."
"Kept me alive this long." Gareth held up his hands. "No judgment. Like I said, everyone in the Frostmarch is running from something. I won't ask your story if you don't ask mine. Deal?"
"Deal."
They shook on it—a strange alliance between strangers, built on mutual secrets and the understanding that some things were better left unspoken.
* * *
The hooded figure approached them later that evening.
Orion had been keeping half an eye on them throughout the journey—habit, mostly, born of too many ambushes and betrayals. The figure moved carefully, deliberately, with the grace of someone accustomed to going unnoticed.
"May I join you?" The voice was soft, feminine, with an accent Orion couldn't place. "The merchant's wagon has become... tedious."
"Of course." Nera patted the space beside her. "I'm Nera. This is Orion. We're—"
"Adventurers seeking work in the north. Yes." The figure sat, pulling back her hood to reveal pointed ears and silver-white hair. Half-elf, Orion realized, though the features were unusual—sharper than most, with eyes that held an unsettling depth. "I am Lyris. A scholar, researching the northern territories."
"What kind of research?" Gareth asked.
"Historical. Archaeological." Lyris's lips twitched in what might have been a smile. "The north holds secrets that the south has forgotten. Old things. Powerful things. I seek to understand them before they're lost entirely."
"Sounds dangerous."
"All worthwhile knowledge is dangerous. That's what makes it worthwhile."
Nera was studying the half-elf with unusual intensity. "You've traveled far," she said. "I can see it in your aura. Hundreds of miles. Thousands, maybe."
Lyris's expression flickered. "You can see auras?"
"Sometimes. When I concentrate." Nera smiled innocently. "It's a pixie thing."
"Pixies can't see auras."
"This one can."
They stared at each other—something unspoken passing between them, a recognition that neither was quite what they appeared to be. Then Lyris laughed, a genuine sound of surprised delight.
"You're interesting," she said. "Both of you. I had expected this journey to be dull. I'm pleased to be wrong."
"We aim to please," Orion said dryly.
"Clearly." Lyris pulled her hood back up. "I'll leave you to your evening. But perhaps tomorrow we might talk more? I have questions about the path ahead, and you seem like people who might have interesting answers."
"Perhaps," Nera said. "If you have interesting questions."
"Oh, I always have interesting questions." The half-elf drifted back toward her wagon, leaving them to puzzle over the encounter.
"She knows something," Orion said quietly.
"She suspects something. It's different."
"Is it?"
"She's not a threat. Not to us." Nera's voice was certain. "I would feel it if she were. She's just... curious. Scholars often are."
"Curiosity can be dangerous."
"So can loneliness." She looked up at him. "She travels alone, studies alone, asks questions that most people don't understand. I know what that feels like."
"Before you met me?"
"Before and after. Until you." She curled closer to him. "Maybe she just wants someone to talk to. Would that be so terrible?"
Orion sighed. His wife's capacity for seeing the best in people was going to get them killed one day. But it was also one of the reasons he loved her.
"Fine," he said. "We'll talk to her. But carefully."
"Always carefully." Nera yawned. "Now sleep. Tomorrow will be long."
It would be longer than either of them expected.
* * *
The attack came at dawn.
Orion woke to screaming—not human screaming, but something else. Howls that echoed off the mountain walls, rising and falling in a rhythm that seemed to vibrate in his bones.
"Wolves!" someone shouted. "Frost wolves! Defensive positions!"
He was on his feet instantly, sword in hand. Nera was already awake, her light flaring as she took in the chaos around them.
The wolves came out of the snow itself—massive creatures, white-furred and ice-eyed, materializing from the drifts like nightmares given form. There were dozens of them, far more than a normal pack. They moved in perfect coordination, flanking the caravan, cutting off escape routes.
"This isn't a hunt," Nera said. "This is organized. They're intelligent."
"Winter spirits," Gareth appeared beside them, his old sword steady in his hands. "Not ordinary wolves—bound spirits in wolf form. Someone or something is controlling them."
"Can we fight them?"
"We can try. But killing the bodies won't stop them. They'll just reform."
"Then what do we do?"
"Find whoever's controlling them." Gareth pointed toward a ridge overlooking the camp. "There—see that blue glow? That's the pack leader. The alpha. Kill it, and the rest might scatter."
Orion saw it—a larger wolf standing apart from the others, its eyes blazing with cold fire. It watched the chaos below with what looked almost like satisfaction.
"I'll handle it," he said. "Keep them off me."
"Orion—" Nera started.
"I'll be fine. Trust me."
He ran.
The wolves tried to intercept him, but Gareth was there—old but not slow, his blade carving through spectral flesh with practiced ease. Nera's light blazed, disorienting the creatures, buying precious seconds.
Orion reached the ridge. The alpha turned to face him, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other—man and spirit, predator and prey, each taking the other's measure.
Then the wolf lunged.
It was fast. Impossibly fast. Orion's blade barely deflected the first strike, and the impact sent him staggering. The cold radiating from the creature bit into him, frost forming on his clothes, his skin, his very breath.
He fought back. His power surged, responding to the threat, and suddenly he was faster too—matching the wolf's speed, anticipating its movements. They clashed again and again, steel against claw, will against instinct.
But it wasn't enough. The alpha was ancient, powerful, driven by a hunger that transcended physical need. Every wound Orion inflicted healed almost instantly. Every advantage he gained was countered.
He was going to lose.
And then Nera appeared.
* * *
She landed between them—human-sized, blazing with light that made the alpha recoil. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the weight of ages.
"ENOUGH."
The wolf snarled, but didn't attack. It recognized what she was, even if it didn't understand.
"You are of the old world," Nera said. Her tone was formal, ancient, nothing like her usual warmth. "A spirit of winter, bound to this mountain. I know you. I know your kind. And I will not let you harm these people."
The alpha's voice, when it came, was like wind through ice. "These people trespass. This is our domain. Our hunting ground."
"They are travelers. They mean no disrespect."
"Disrespect is in the presence. They bring fire to our realm. Warmth. Heat. It is an insult."
"Then accept tribute instead." Nera held up her hand, and something formed there—a crystal of pure light, beautiful and cold, pulsing with contained power. "A gift from the Eternal Court to the Winter's Children. In exchange for safe passage."
The alpha studied the crystal. Something shifted in its ancient eyes—recognition, perhaps, or memory.
"You are of the Court," it said slowly. "A high one. A queen."
"I was. Now I am simply a traveler, like these others. But my word still carries weight." She extended the crystal. "Take this. Let us pass. Honor the old pacts."
A long moment. The battle below had frozen, wolves and humans alike watching the negotiation with held breath.
Then the alpha bowed its great head and accepted the crystal.
"The pact is honored," it intoned. "Pass, travelers. Pass, and remember that Winter grants no second chances."
It turned and bounded away, and its pack followed—dissolving back into the snow from which they'd come, leaving behind only silence and the smell of frost.
Nera's light faded. She swayed, and Orion caught her before she could fall.
"That was risky," he said.
"That was necessary." She was trembling—not from cold, but from exhaustion. Creating that crystal had cost her. "Old spirits respond to old traditions. It was the only way to end this without more death."
"You revealed yourself."
"To a winter spirit that has no connection to the fairy realm. It won't spread." She managed a weak smile. "Probably."
"Probably isn't certainty."
"Nothing is certain anymore." She leaned into him. "But we're alive. That's what matters."
He couldn't argue with that.
* * *
The aftermath was quieter than expected.
Three guards had been wounded, but none killed—a miracle, given the ferocity of the attack. The caravan master had questions, but Gareth deflected them with a veteran's smoothness, attributing Nera's intervention to "fairy magic, don't ask, just be grateful."
Most people were happy to accept that explanation. They didn't want to think too hard about what had almost happened.
Lyris, however, was not most people.
"That was impressive," she said, approaching where Orion was checking Nera for injuries. The half-elf had a gash on her arm—she'd fought during the attack, apparently, though Orion hadn't seen it. "The negotiation. The tribute. Most people don't even know winter spirits can be reasoned with."
"Most people haven't studied the old traditions," Nera said tiredly.
"No. They haven't." Lyris knelt beside her, examining Nera's face with unsettling intensity. "But you have. Because you lived them. Didn't you?"
Silence.
"I study history," Lyris continued. "Ancient history. The kind that predates human civilization. The fairy courts, the elemental pacts, the treaties that shaped this world before mortals learned to write." She tilted her head. "You called yourself 'of the Court.' Said you 'were' a queen. Past tense."
"You're perceptive."
"I'm a scholar. It's my job." But there was no threat in her voice—just curiosity, and something that might have been respect. "I won't ask you to confirm what I suspect. Some secrets are worth keeping. But I want you to know that whatever you are, whoever you were... you saved lives today. That matters more than any title."
She stood, wincing at the movement. Her arm wound was worse than she'd let on—blood seeping through improvised bandages.
"That needs treatment," Nera said.
"The healers are occupied with the guards."
"Then let me." Nera reached out, her light flaring gently. "Hold still."
"You don't have to—"
"I know." But she was already working, her power flowing into the wound, knitting flesh and sealing blood vessels. It was a small magic compared to what she'd done with the winter spirit, but Lyris's eyes widened anyway.
"That's not pixie magic," the scholar breathed.
"No," Nera agreed. "It's not."
The healing took only moments. When it was done, Lyris flexed her arm experimentally, finding it whole and painless.
"Thank you," she said. "Truly."
"You fought to protect the caravan. It seemed only fair."
"Even so." Lyris hesitated. "If you're heading to Thornhaven... I know the city. I've spent time there, in the archives. If you need guidance, or assistance..."
"We might take you up on that," Orion said. He'd been watching the exchange, reassessing his opinion of the half-elf. Anyone who fought beside them and asked questions without demanding answers was, at minimum, worth cautious trust.
"I hope you do." Lyris pulled her hood back up. "The north is harsh, but it's honest. I think you'll find what you're looking for there."
"What makes you think we're looking for something?"
"Everyone who comes north is looking for something." She smiled—a real smile, the first Orion had seen from her. "The question is whether you're brave enough to find it."
She drifted away, leaving them to ponder her words.
* * *
That night, huddled together for warmth as the caravan pressed on, Orion and Nera finally talked about Thornhaven.
"Gareth says it's cold and honest," Orion said. "Lyris says we'll find what we're looking for."
"And what are we looking for?"
"Peace. Safety. A place to stop running."
"Does such a place exist?"
"I don't know." He pulled her closer. "But I know we can't keep doing this forever. Thirteen months of moving, never settling, always looking over our shoulders. It's wearing us down."
"Me more than you," Nera admitted quietly. "I'm not built for this. I'm built for roots, for growth, for staying. Running goes against everything I am."
"Then we stop running. We find somewhere—Thornhaven or wherever—and we make our stand."
"And when they find us?"
"Then we face them. Together." He lifted her chin, making her meet his eyes. "I'm tired of being prey. I'd rather be a target that fights back than one that keeps fleeing."
"That's dangerous."
"Everything is dangerous. At least this way, we get to choose our ground."
Nera was quiet for a long moment. The wind howled outside, snow battering the wagon's canvas cover, but inside their small cocoon of warmth, it felt almost peaceful.
"Thornhaven," she finally said. "We go to Thornhaven. We find a home. We stop running."
"And whatever comes—"
"We face it together." She kissed him—a promise, a seal, a declaration. "Always together."
"Always."
They slept wrapped around each other, while outside the mountains loomed and the snow fell and the path ahead grew ever more uncertain.
But for the first time in thirteen months, they had a destination.
A purpose.
A plan.
It would have to be enough.
* * *
Commander Seraphel reached the Frostmarch three weeks later.
She stood at the base of the pass, staring up at the snow-covered peaks, and felt something she hadn't felt in centuries: frustration.
"Pass is closed," the trading post keeper told her. "Early winter this year. Snows came in heavy after that last caravan went through. Won't be passable again until spring."
"That caravan. There was a woman with it? Small? Green hair?"
"The pixie lady?" The keeper nodded. "Aye, I remember her. Strange one. Her husband too. They were heading north, like everyone else fool enough to try the Frostmarch."
"Did they make it through?"
"No word either way. But I heard there was some trouble on the pass—winter spirits, supposedly. The caravan fought them off, somehow. If your pixie lady was with them, she's either dead or on the other side."
Seraphel stared at the mountains. The trail, so close now, blocked by snow and ice and the indifferent cruelty of nature.
She could try to cross anyway. Her power was considerable; she could survive conditions that would kill any mortal. But the pass was treacherous even for immortals, and she would be slowed, weakened, vulnerable.
Or she could wait. Months of waiting, while her queen settled into whatever life she was building on the other side.
Neither option satisfied her. But then, nothing about this chase had satisfied her for a long time.
She found lodging in the trading post, a sparse room with a single window that looked out at the impassable peaks. She sat there through the night, watching the snow fall, thinking about duty and freedom and what it meant to serve someone who no longer wished to be served.
A local woman approached her the next morning—old, weathered, with eyes that held the knowing look of someone who had lived long and seen much.
"You're chasing someone," the woman said. "I can tell. You have the look of a hunter who's lost the scent."
"The trail will pick up again in spring."
"Maybe. Maybe not." The woman sat across from her, uninvited but somehow not unwelcome. "Let me tell you a story. About a girl from this village who fell in love with a boy from beyond the mountains."
"I don't need stories."
"Everyone needs stories. They're how we learn." The woman smiled. "This girl—she was promised to another. A good match, her parents said. Duty, they said. Honor. But she loved the mountain boy, and he loved her. So one winter, she left. Crossed the Frostmarch in the dead of night, through snow and ice and spirits. Nearly died three times."
"What happened to her?"
"She made it. Married her mountain boy. Had five children and twenty grandchildren. Lived until she was ninety-seven, and died smiling." The woman's eyes glittered. "Her family back here called her a traitor. Said she'd abandoned her duty. But you know what she said, when I asked her if she regretted it?"
Seraphel waited.
"She said: 'Duty is what others tell you to do. Love is what you choose for yourself. I chose love, and I'd choose it again in every lifetime.'"
The woman stood, patted Seraphel's shoulder, and walked away without another word.
Seraphel sat alone, the story echoing in her mind.
Duty is what others tell you to do.
Love is what you choose for yourself.
For three thousand years, she had only known duty. Had only wanted duty. Had believed that duty was enough.
But watching her queen walk away from everything for love... following the trail of kindness she'd left behind... standing now at a mountain pass that separated her from answers she wasn't sure she wanted...
For the first time in her immortal life, Seraphel wondered if duty was truly enough.
Spring was months away.
She had time to decide.
— End of Chapter Seventeen —