The forest was a blur of white and shadow.
Elyas ran until his legs gave out, collapsing into the snow with Lira still clutched in his arms. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one burning like fire.
*Dead. All dead.*
His mother's face flashed behind his eyelids—her dark eyes wide, her lips forming that last, silent command.
*Run.*
A hand gripped his shoulder. He flinched, reaching for the dagger at his belt.
"Easy." Kaela's voice was low, wary.
Elyas blinked up at her.
Kaela Silverstream stood over him, her sharp features half-hidden by the hood of her wolf-pelt cloak. She was tall for a girl of sixteen, her frame lean but corded with muscle from years of Northern winters. Her hair, the color of burnt copper, was braided tightly against her scalp, save for a few stubborn strands that escaped to frame her face. Her eyes—a piercing, frost-laced green—scanned the trees behind them.
"They're not following," she muttered. "Yet."
Lira stirred in Elyas's arms, her small fingers clutching his tunic.
Lira Thorne was only eight, a tiny thing with wide, doe-like eyes the same deep brown as their mother's. Her black hair, usually neatly braided, was now a tangled mess, streaked with soot. Her round cheeks were flushed from the cold, and her lower lip trembled.
"Elyas… where's Mama?"
His throat tightened.
Kaela's jaw clenched. She didn't answer for him.
They found shelter in a hunter's cave, the entrance half-buried by snow. Kaela lit a fire while Elyas wrapped Lira in his cloak.
"We need to keep moving," Kaela said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Baldur's men will sweep the woods at dawn."
Elyas stared into the flames. "Where?"
"North."
"You said your people don't take refugees."
"They don't." She tossed a stick into the fire. "But I'm not giving you to them. We'll skirt the clans, head for the highlands."
Lira sniffled. "I'm cold."
Kaela hesitated, then unslung her fur-lined cloak and draped it over the girl.
Elyas watched her.
*Why is she helping us?*
Kaela caught his gaze and scowled. "Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to stab you in the back."
Elyas said nothing.
She snorted. "I owe your father. That's all."
"My father's dead."
The fire crackled between them.
Kaela's fingers twitched toward the dagger at her hip. "Then I owe his ghost."
Dawn came too soon.
Elyas woke to the sound of distant horns.
Kaela was already at the cave's entrance, her bow in hand. "They're close."
Lira whimpered, curling tighter into Elyas's side.
He forced himself to stand, his muscles screaming. His reflection in a patch of ice gave him pause.
Elyas Thorne was seventeen, with the broad shoulders of a farmer's son and the calloused hands of a boy who'd trained with swords since he could walk. His black hair, usually tied back, hung loose and wild around his face, streaked with ash. His eyes—deep-set and dark as the winter soil—were hollow now, the fire in them reduced to embers. A fresh cut marred his cheekbone, courtesy of last night's chaos.
He looked like a ghost.
*Good,* he thought. *Maybe I am one.*
They moved like shadows through the trees.
Kaela led, her steps silent, her eyes scanning every branch. Elyas carried Lira, the girl's face buried in his shoulder.
Then—voices.
Kaela froze, pressing a finger to her lips.
Elyas crouched, peering through the brush.
Three men in Ironhand colors stood by a fallen log, their breath fogging in the cold.
"—slaughtered the whole damn village," one grunted. "Baldur's gone mad."
"Quiet," another snapped. "He'll skin you alive if he hears that."
The third man, a hulking brute with a scarred face, spat. "Worth it. That Thorne bitch had it coming."
Elyas's blood turned to ice.
Kaela's hand clamped over his wrist. *Don't.*
He shook her off.
The dagger was in his hand before he realized he'd moved.
The first man died with steel in his throat.
The second barely had time to scream before Elyas drove the blade into his gut.
The third—the brute—drew his axe.
"You little—"
Elyas lunged.
The man was bigger. Stronger.
But Elyas was faster.
He ducked under the axe swing and buried his dagger in the man's ribs. Once. Twice.
The brute gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. "You… you're the Thorne boy…"
Elyas twisted the blade.
The man's eyes went blank.
Silence.
Then—a whimper.
Elyas turned.
Lira stood at the edge of the clearing, her small hands pressed to her mouth.
Kaela's expression was unreadable.
Elyas looked down at the bodies. At the blood on his hands.
*This is who I am now.*
They didn't speak of it.
Kaela took the dead men's supplies—a waterskin, a strip of dried meat, a whetstone.
Lira didn't look at Elyas.
He didn't blame her.
As they walked, Kaela finally broke the silence.
"You're going to get us killed."
Elyas wiped his dagger clean on his pants. "Then leave."
She grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. "Listen to me, you stubborn bastard. You want revenge? Fine. But you won't last a week if you charge at every Ironhand dog you see."
He yanked free. "What do you care?"
Her eyes flashed. "I don't. But *she* does." She jerked her chin at Lira. "And if you get her killed too, then what was the point?"
Elyas's fists clenched.
Kaela leaned in, her voice a hiss. "Learn to fight. *Properly.* Then go kill Baldur."
He held her gaze.
Then nodded.
That night, by the fire, Kaela tossed him a sword.
One of the dead men's blades—short, crude, but serviceable.
"Show me your stance," she said.
Elyas obeyed.
She circled him like a wolf sizing up prey. Then, in one fluid motion, she kicked his legs out from under him.
He hit the ground hard.
Lira giggled.
Kaela smirked. "Again."
Elyas gritted his teeth and stood.
*This is only the beginning.*