Elias had stopped feeling his hands hours ago.
Or perhaps it had been days. Time blurred together beneath the weight of exhaustion and cold, stretching endlessly across the frozen landscape.
He kept moving.
He had no other choice.
The outpost was supposed to be north—past the river, through the trees, beyond the ridge. But the storm had swallowed everything. The landmarks had vanished beneath thick sheets of white. He had long since lost sight of the road.
And now, the world was nothing but snow.
Nothing but bitter wind and aching limbs and the distant, gnawing realization that he might not make it.
But still—
He walked.
Even as his body screamed for rest. Even as the cold pressed against his bones. Even as exhaustion whispered—just stop. Just for a moment. Just close your eyes…
No.
Elias clenched his teeth, forcing his feet to move.
Because stopping meant death.
And dying—
Dying meant they won.
Dain. The soldiers. The ones who wanted him gone.
If he froze out here, they wouldn't grieve. They wouldn't even care.
They would simply forget.
And Elias refused to let that happen.
Even if all he could do was keep walking.
Even if every step felt like a battle.
Even if his vision blurred and the wind howled louder and the edges of the world went soft, distant, dark—
His foot caught on something.
He stumbled.
Fell.
The snow swallowed him whole.
The cold pressed in from all sides, a crushing, suffocating weight.
And this time—
His body did not rise.
The Hunt Continues
Caidren's jaw ached from how hard he was clenching it.
The storm had worsened. Snow pelted his face, the wind tearing through even the thickest furs. His horse snorted, shaking its head in irritation, but he did not slow.
He could not slow.
They had found the river. Frozen solid. Tracks leading north, barely visible beneath the fresh snowfall.
And then—
Nothing.
The trail had vanished.
Caidren cursed under his breath.
Dain, trailing just behind him, gave a low whistle. "If he wandered off the path, we'll be looking for a corpse."
Caidren ignored him.
It was too soon.
Elias could not be dead.
Not yet.
His horse shifted beneath him, impatient, but Caidren kept scanning the land.
A flicker of something dark—half-buried in the snow, just beyond the ridge.
His stomach turned.
Without a word, he swung down from the saddle, boots sinking into the deep drifts. The wind howled around him, tearing through the silence as he moved toward the figure.
Closer.
Too small. Too still.
The remnants of a cloak, dusted in white.
A boy, barely breathing.
Caidren knelt, gloved fingers brushing against ice-cold skin. No response.
His jaw tightened.
Not yet.
He had not come this far for a corpse.
With a sharp breath, Caidren reached down, gripping Elias by the collar, dragging him from the snow.
The boy did not stir.
Caidren's stomach twisted, unfamiliar and sharp.
Then—a breath.
Shallow. Weak. But still there.
Still alive.
Caidren exhaled slowly.
Dain's voice carried over the wind, laced with amusement. "Well, look at that. You got here just in time."
Caidren didn't answer.
Didn't even look at him.
Instead, he pulled Elias up, shifting the boy's frozen weight against his chest.
And, without another word, he carried him back to the horse.