The mountains seemed to fade into the horizon, their jagged shapes swallowed by the white curtain of drifting snow. The sun was sinking fast, bleeding orange light across the sky, and every minute made it harder for Cale to keep track of the narrow path beneath his boots.
Soft thuds marked the fall of snow on the woolen hood of his cloak. He pulled the fabric tighter around himself-again-a desperate attempt to hold onto whatever warmth he had left.
He had been on the run for more than a week now. Banished from the only home he'd ever known. Cast out the day after his eighteenth birthday.
The journey had been harsher than he'd expected, and winter showed no sign of loosening its grip. His fingers stung, his breath curled in front of him like pale smoke, and every step made his legs feel heavier.
Before he fled, his mother had pressed a small bundle of provisions into his hands. It hadn't been much-hard bread, dried meat, a waterskin-but it had kept him going so far. He touched the bundle now through his cloak, as if the simple weight of it might reassure him.
Above him, the wind shifted, howling between the mountain ridges. Cale lowered his head and pushed forward. There was no turning back. Not anymore.
Just when Cale was about to give up-ready to lie down in the snow and pray he'd survive the deadly mountain cold-something flickered at the edge of his vision.
He blinked hard. Then, in a half-desperate attempt to test whether he was hallucinating, he smacked himself on the side of the head. Pain jolted through his frozen fingers.
"Idiot," he muttered through chattering teeth.
But there it was again. His eyes locked onto a thin, steady, barely visible grey line rising above the horizon-too straight, too constant to be part of the storm. Smoke.
That single spark of hope pulled him upright. He pushed forward with the last scraps of strength he had left. His legs dragged through the deep drifts, each step heavier than the one before. He stumbled, slipped-then crashed face-first into the icy snow with a muffled whump.
For a moment he lay still, the cold clawing its way through his cloak. Time blurred. Minutes-maybe hours-passed. Or maybe it was only seconds.
Then he felt it: hands. Someone tugging at his arm, trying to drag him out of the snow. He tried to speak, but his lips wouldn't move. Darkness swept over him like a wave, and he let himself sink into it.
---
Warmth.
That was the first thing he noticed when he opened his eyes again. Real, heavy warmth pressing against his skin.
He was lying on a rough wooden cot inside a small, cozy cabin. A fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with orange light. He frowned, trying to piece together the last thing he remembered. Snow. Smoke. Falling. A hand-
"Well now," a gentle voice said. "Looks like someone finally woke up."
Cale turned his head. An older woman stood beside the fireplace, watching him with a warm, almost relieved smile.
Cale lifted a hand to his temples, rubbing gently as he tried to push back the fog clouding his thoughts.
"Who... who are you?" he asked, his voice rough.
"I'm Ingrid," the woman replied calmly. "And what's your name?"
"I'm Cale," he said after a moment, still trying to steady himself.
"Well, Cale," she continued as she moved around the cabin, "where were you off to in weather like this?"
"I... I don't know," he admitted. The truth tasted strange in his mouth. He had been going somewhere, but now it felt like a half-remembered dream fading into the snowstorm.
Ingrid snorted softly. "Honestly, I'd stay here until winter is over if I were you."
She handed him a bowl of steaming stew. The wooden sides warmed his palms instantly, sending a rush of relief up his arms.
"Eat," she insisted.
"Thank you," he murmured before taking his first cautious sip. The heat settled inside him like a small fire, driving the cold from his bones.
"Oh-and if you're planning on staying a while," she added, tossing another log onto the hearth, "I could use someone to chop wood. My pile's running low."
Cale stared into the bowl, thinking. Stay, or leave? Hide here until the cold loosened its grip, or step back into the biting storm with no plan, no strength, and nowhere to go?
After a long moment, he exhaled and gave a small nod.
Staying wasn't just the safest choice-it was the only one.
It was full dark by the time Cale returned to the cabin, the cold gnawing viciously at his fingers even through his gloves. His breath streamed white into the night as he carried the last armful of chopped wood toward the door.
The moment he stepped inside, the heat hit him like a blow-sharp, overwhelming, but infinitely better than the freezing mountain air. He shut the door quickly and hurried toward the hearth, setting the wood down beside the small fire.
"Ever thought about going to the University?" Ingrid asked suddenly.
Cale let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"I'm not a noble. They'd never accept me."
"That's not what I asked," she said, turning a sharp eye toward him. "Have you thought about it?"
"I mean... yeah," he admitted. "I think I'd like it but-"
"I might be able to get you in," she said casually, as if she were offering him another bowl of stew instead of a completely impossible future.
Cale froze. His eyes widened just a fraction.
"And how exactly would you get me into the University?"
Ingrid only winked. "I know some people. Don't worry about it."
Cale studies her for a moment, unsure whether she's joking or dead serious. Ingrid's face is calm, unreadable except for the faintest hint of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.
He opens his mouth, closes it again, then finally manages:
"...Why would you help me?"
Ingrid shrugs, busying herself with scraping the last bits of stew from the pot. "Because you're not stupid," she says simply. "And because I don't like seeing potential rot away in the snow."
Before he can respond, a loud crack echoes outside-ice shifting under the weight of the night. The wind howls around the wooden cabin, making it creak like an old ship at sea.
Ingrid glances toward the window. "Storm's getting worse."
Cale nods. He still feels the cold clinging to his skin, but inside... for the first time in days, maybe weeks, there's a strange warmth in his chest. A small ember of something he hasn't felt in a long while.
Hope.
Ingrid tosses another log into the fire and wipes her hands on her trousers. "Get some sleep, Cale. Big day tomorrow."
"Why? What's tomorrow?"
She gives him that same cryptic half-smile.
"You'll see."