The world changed before the border sign ever appeared.

  The road hardened. The wind sharpened. The air stopped smelling like wet soil and started smelling like clean ice and stone that had been cold for a long time. Frost clung to the shaded side of trees even at midday, and the sky looked closer—lower—like Winter territory pressed down on everything that entered it.

  Even the horses breathed differently.

  They didn’t like it here.

  Neither did most people.

  The town of Glacis sat like a clenched fist at the edge of the territory—thick walls, dark timber, roofs built steep so snow couldn’t linger long enough to collapse them. Smoke rose from chimneys in thin lines that didn’t drift lazily; the wind took it and stretched it into warning.

  As the carriage rolled through the gate, heads turned.

  Not curious heads.

  Measured heads.

  The kind that asked why are you here before they asked who are you.

  The escort tightened. Soldiers kept hands near spears. Even the chatter of wheels felt too loud.

  Winter guards watched from the wall, faces wrapped in cloth, eyes pale and sharp. They didn’t wave. They didn’t greet. They simply tracked—counting bodies, counting weapons, deciding whether the road behind the carriage should stay open.

  Ahead—just past the main road—stood a small group waiting.

  Four knights in varied gear, each carrying a hint of blue-green cloth somewhere in their attire. Not uniform. Not matching. But linked.

  And with them stood a small half-elf.

  Not dressed like a servant.

  Not dressed like a visiting noble either.

  Her cloak was practical, stitched in layers that looked made for forest travel. A satchel hung at her side, heavy enough to rattle with glass and metal when she moved.

  Her eyes were calm.

  Too calm.

  The four knights around her were not.

  They stood tense, scanning rooftops and alleys like the town might decide to bite.

  “Gale,” Karen muttered under her breath as she walked beside Zamora. It wasn’t a question.

  Zamora’s eyes narrowed. “They’re on edge.”

  Karen nodded once. “Because Winter doesn’t play polite.”

  Denis, walking like this was his personal parade, glanced at them and smiled. “Or because they don’t like leaving their trees.”

  The carriage slowed.

  Stopped.

  Princess Diane shifted inside like she’d been waiting for the moment the world acknowledged her.

  The door opened.

  Cold rushed in.

  Diane didn’t flinch.

  Garn did—not outwardly, but in the way his lungs tightened when he breathed. This cold wasn’t just weather. It felt like a presence. Like the land wanted to see if you deserved to be warm.

  He stepped out first, boots crunching on frost-hardened dirt. The sound was too loud in a town that listened.

  A few townsfolk leaned from doorways. A child peered from behind a barrel, then got yanked back inside by a gloved hand. Somewhere above, a bell clinked once, not an alarm—just a warning that strangers had entered.

  Garn moved around the back of the carriage without thinking.

  The soldiers noticed.

  Yona noticed.

  Even Diane noticed, eyes narrowing slightly as if she was watching a choice being made.

  Garn reached the carriage door, opened it, and offered his hand.

  Diane placed her fingers in his like it was expected.

  Like it was her due.

  He helped her down carefully.

  Her boots met frozen ground. She steadied herself, then looked up at Garn and smiled.

  Not sweet.

  Devilish.

  Like she enjoyed being obeyed.

  Garn’s brow tightened. “Why me.”

  Diane blinked like she didn’t understand the question.

  Then she smiled wider.

  “Because you’re my knight,” she said.

  The words were light.

  The claim underneath them wasn’t.

  Garn’s jaw flexed.

  Yona’s eyes shifted—sharp, disapproving, but she didn’t correct the princess in public. Not here. Not in Winter’s earshot.

  A voice cut in—soft, familiar, carrying a warning under the warmth.

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  “Diane.”

  The half-elf had turned her head.

  Her gaze landed on the princess like she’d known her longer than anyone in this town had.

  Diane froze for half a beat.

  Then her face changed.

  Not into ceremony.

  Into something real.

  “Celene,” Diane breathed.

  And then she ran.

  Not a royal stride. Not measured. Not guarded.

  A sprint—careless and fast across frozen ground.

  Celene moved forward too, and they collided in a tight hug like the cold didn’t exist.

  For a second, even the Winter wind felt less sharp.

  Diane laughed into the hug, muffled and bright.

  Celene squeezed back like she’d been waiting for this since the letter was sent.

  One of Celene’s knights muttered something under his breath—half relief, half complaint—and another scanned the walls again as if happiness itself invited an arrow.

  Yona stepped out next, stiff, composed. Denis followed after her like a shadow that didn’t respect doors.

  He looked at the two women hugging and gave a low whistle.

  “The princess,” Denis said, “and the head of House Gale.”

  He smirked like the world was handing him jokes for free.

  “What a surprise.”

  Karen’s eyes narrowed. “Strange for a head of a house to travel out of their territory.”

  Zamora nodded once, agreeing before she even meant to. “Winter isn’t friendly ground.”

  Denis shrugged. “Normal for her.”

  Karen glanced at him. “Normal.”

  Denis nodded, pleased to explain something no one asked for.

  “Anything with plants,” Denis said, “anything His Majesty—or any lord—agrees to let them tend, she’s usually the first to appear. That’s why most houses don’t treat Gale as a threat.”

  He paused just long enough to make it dramatic.

  “But they fear their greatest ally.”

  Garn frowned. “Who.”

  Denis blinked at him like the answer should’ve been obvious.

  “You don’t know?” Denis asked.

  Garn’s eyes narrowed. “No.”

  Denis smiled. “Even though your teacher is from the head house.”

  Garn’s stomach dropped a fraction. “What.”

  Denis pointed vaguely north, then east, then back at Garn like geography was a joke.

  “Your Vyse,” Denis said. “The one you’re trying to awaken. The teaching behind it.”

  Garn stared. “What are you talking about.”

  Denis’ grin thinned into something sharper.

  “Speed over strength,” Denis said. “Lightning.”

  Garn didn’t answer. Because the words hit.

  A memory of training.

  A stance.

  A philosophy.

  Denis continued before Garn could catch up.

  “House Marrowick,” Denis said. “And House Gale lives behind Marrowick—inside that deep, thick forest.”

  Garn’s brow tightened.

  He wanted to ask what that meant—how they were connected—how his training was connected—

  But before Denis could explain more—

  Celene released Diane and turned her head.

  Her eyes slid past the carriage.

  Past Yona.

  Then landed on Denis.

  Her face lit up like someone had struck flint near dry tinder.

  “DENIS?” she shouted.

  Heads turned.

  Winter soldiers on the wall.

  Townfolk in doorways.

  Even Diane blinked like she’d forgotten Denis existed.

  Denis smiled like he’d just been rewarded.

  Celene rushed over, excitement breaking every ounce of her careful half-elf composure.

  She grabbed Denis by the shoulders.

  “IS THAT YOU?” she demanded, as if he might be a hallucination.

  Denis lifted his hands in surrender. “It is me.”

  Celene’s eyes widened. “Did you bring flowers? Seeds? Anything from other land?”

  Denis’ grin widened. “Not this time.”

  Celene’s shoulders sagged with immediate disappointment—

  Until Denis added, casually, like he was describing the weather—

  “But when I go to Hasten, I’ll make sure to bring the seeds of a Phoenix tree.”

  Celene froze.

  Denis kept going.

  “And if I find one,” he said, “a Medusa flower as well.”

  Celene’s face turned red so fast it looked unreal.

  Her hands flew to his arms like she needed to shake the words out of him.

  “A MEDUSA FLOWER?” she squeaked. “NO WAY—NO WAY—”

  She started shaking him.

  Hard.

  “WHAT TYPE OF DRYAD WOULD THAT MAKE?”

  Denis laughed as his head rocked back and forth. “A terrifying one.”

  Everyone else stared.

  Because none of them knew what was stranger:

  That Celene Gale existed like this.

  Or that Denis Valemont had a friend.

  Or that his friend was shaking him in front of a princess.

  Karen’s mouth tightened. Zamora’s brows lifted. Even Yona looked momentarily lost—like she’d prepared for hostility and found… gardening.

  Diane watched it with a small smile, like seeing Celene excited made the whole trip worth it.

  Celene finally released Denis and sucked in a breath, trying to compose herself. It lasted half a second.

  She turned to the escort, eyes bright.

  “I got your message,” she said, voice calmer now. “You’re here for wolves.”

  Yona’s head tilted a fraction. “We’re here for a pelt.”

  Celene nodded. “Dire wolves don’t give pelts to strangers.”

  Diane’s smile thinned. “Then we’ll take it.”

  Celene’s gaze flicked to Diane—warning, gentle.

  “This land listens,” Celene said softly. “And Winter listens back.”

  Diane rolled her eyes, but she didn’t argue. Not when Celene’s tone sounded like a friend trying to save her from herself.

  Then hooves clicked against stone.

  A small Winter party approached—controlled, official.

  A knight in Winter colors walked at the front, posture straight. A squire followed at his side. And behind them walked a young man in clean travel clothes, hands clasped behind his back like he was trying to practice being important.

  The young man stepped forward first.

  He bowed—properly, precisely.

  “I confirmed your arrival for my father and mother,” he said. His voice was calm, practiced. Noble-born but not arrogant.

  Then he lifted his head and smiled politely.

  “I am Thadeus Winter,” he said. “Young master of House Winter.”

  Diane tilted her head. “Thadeus.”

  Thadeus nodded, then continued, tone matter-of-fact.

  “One—when you are about to leave,” he said, gesturing to the knight beside him, “please notify this knight.”

  The Winter knight stepped forward and bowed.

  “Jarod Atika,” he said. “House Winter’s knight.”

  He placed a hand briefly on the shoulder of the boy beside him.

  “And this is my squire,” Jarod added. “Ray Burton.”

  Ray bowed quickly, eager enough it looked like his spine might snap.

  Jarod’s gaze stayed respectful but firm.

  “I will accompany you while you are hunting,” he said. Then he hesitated—just once—and added, “I request that Ray be allowed to assist with the hunt.”

  The request hung in the cold air.

  Not because it was bold.

  Because in Winter territory, permission mattered more than desire.

  Ray’s eyes widened, hopeful and terrified all at once.

  Yona’s mouth tightened. “A squire on a dire wolf hunt?”

  Jarod’s face didn’t change. “He needs field experience. He won’t be in the way.”

  Karen scoffed softly. “That’s what dead squires always sound like before they die.”

  Ray swallowed.

  Thadeus cleared his throat politely, as if smoothing over a brewing argument was part of his job description.

  “Ray has trained with spear and bow,” he said. “He can keep pace. And he knows this territory better than anyone from the south.”

  Denis smiled. “He also knows which snowdrifts swallow ankles.”

  Zamora’s eyes flicked to Denis. “And you know which kicks break ribs.”

  Denis’ smile widened. “We all know things.”

  Celene stepped between the sharp edges with a calm that felt practiced.

  “If Ray comes,” she said, “he stays inside the ring. He listens to Jarod. He listens to Yona. And if the wolves move wrong—he runs.”

  Ray nodded too fast.

  Jarod bowed once, satisfied. “Agreed.”

  Diane looked bored already. “Where do we stay.”

  Thadeus gestured toward the town. “A house has been prepared. Not an inn. Winter prefers to know where guests sleep.”

  The way he said it made it sound like hospitality and surveillance were the same custom.

  Garn glanced at the town again.

  Glacis didn’t look welcoming.

  It looked ready.

  Ready for storms. Ready for raids. Ready for guests to become burdens.

  The cold wasn’t the worst part.

  The worst part was the feeling that the town itself was judging them.

  Celene turned to Garn, voice softer.

  “You’ll want gloves,” she said. “Your hands will crack.”

  Garn stared at her. “Why are you here.”

  Celene blinked, then smiled like it was simple.

  “Because Diane asked,” she said. “And because wolves don’t care that she’s a princess.”

  Denis chuckled. “They might care. They might eat her first out of spite.”

  Yona’s eyes cut to him. “Speak again.”

  Denis held up a hand. “Joke.”

  Thadeus smiled politely, like he didn’t know whether to be offended or impressed.

  “Please,” he said, “follow us. We’ll brief you on the routes. There are places you do not step in Winter land unless you want to disappear.”

  Diane’s chin lifted. “We won’t disappear.”

  Celene’s eyes softened, but her voice stayed serious.

  “Don’t challenge the cold,” she said. “It always wins eventually.”

  As they began moving through Glacis, the town swallowed them in narrow streets and watching windows.

  Garn felt it again—like the land listened.

  Not with ears.

  With weight.

  With silence.

  And somewhere beyond the walls, far north where the snow never truly melted, something waited to see what kind of people had crossed into its home.