The first storm of winter came early.
Vera pulled her cloak tighter as sleet lashed the caravan's side. She rode near the front, horse steady, gaze sharp.
They were moving north—three wagons of refugees, grain sacks, and tools. Behind them, war crackled faintly across the south, still simmering.
Ahead, the wilderness.
“Storm's picking up," murmured the scout beside her.
“Let it," Vera replied, voice steady. “It'll slow down anyone hunting us."
---
By nightfall, they reached the ridge.
Below, an abandoned observatory hunched on a cliff edge, surrounded by frost-split stones.
“Looks cursed," one of the guards muttered.
Vera dismounted. “Perfect. Bandits hate curses."
She led them inside.
Dust. Ice. Silence.
But it would hold for the night.
---
Later, Vera found a corner alone.
