Chapter 6 Winter Lies
1518 Words
Seraphel carefully stepped around a cluster of sharp rocks protruding from the cave floor, her eyes drifting back to the Northern man seated across from her. The more she looked at him, the stranger he seemed.
Blood continued to seep steadily from his leg, staining the stone beneath him dark red, yet he behaved as though nothing was wrong—no grimace, no tension, no sign of discomfort whatsoever. It was deeply unsettling.
The fire crackled softly between them, casting flickering shadows across the cave walls. In the shifting light, she studied him more closely. His hair concealed much of his face, but not enough to hide the sharp line of his jaw or the elegant structure of his features.
If not for the perpetual amusement lingering around his mouth, he might have looked almost coldly beautiful. Unfortunately, that smile ruined the effect.
Her gaze inevitably drifted back to his injury. The wound looked even worse now, with blood pooling beneath him. Any normal person should have collapsed hours ago, and even most cultivators would have been dead. Yet here he sat, casually roasting meat over the fire.
Ridiculous.
As though sensing her scrutiny, the man turned his head.
Seraphel immediately found herself facing him. She wasn’t surprised—she had already realized some time ago that he had been observing her just as closely.
Even with his eyes partially hidden behind loose strands of dark hair, she could feel his attention watching, measuring, and evaluating her.
The silence between them had stretched for hours. Neither trusted the other, neither intended to reveal anything important, and yet neither had left. It felt strangely similar to a dangerous game of chess.
Finally, the man broke the silence. “What is a sheltered young miss doing this deep in the woods?”
Seraphel didn’t answer immediately. Her hand unconsciously brushed against the pouch hanging at her waist, where the Blood
Flower rested safely inside.
It would need careful preparation—cold, blood, and moonlight—before it could be used. Any mistake would destroy its properties entirely. Lost in thought, she nearly forgot he was waiting for an answer.
When she looked up, his attention was fixed entirely on her. For some reason, that made her suddenly aware of herself: the cave, the darkness, and the fact that they were completely alone. Her eyes narrowed as she folded her arms across her chest. “What are you staring at?” The question came out sharper than she intended.
The man’s lips twitched. “You looked first.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “The audacity.”
His smile widened, clearly entertained by her irritation. “You know,” he said casually, “for an Eastern noble lady, saying thank you seems surprisingly difficult.”
Seraphel blinked, then realized what he meant—the bear. After a brief pause, she straightened her back. “Thank you.”
“Ah.” He leaned comfortably against the cave wall. “And here I thought fear had stolen your voice.”
Seraphel resisted the urge to throw a piece of firewood at him. His voice was calm, smooth, and dangerously pleasant—like a
venomous snake hiding beneath fresh snow.
Nothing about him felt normal: not his swordsmanship, not his endurance, not his strange sense of humor, and especially not the fact that he had nearly split a demonic beast in half while looking half-dead.
Northerners truly were monsters. Stories about them circulated throughout the continent—some exaggerated, some not—but all agreed on one thing: the people of the North were different. Stronger. Harder. More dangerous.
They lived beyond the reach of kings and emperors, guarding the mountain passes against horrors that most southern kingdoms preferred not to acknowledge.
Seraphel had spent years reading reports about them in her previous life, but she had never expected to meet one, much less share a cave with one.
After a moment of hesitation, she spoke again. “Look, it’s technically my fault your injury got worse.”
“Technically?”
“Fine. Partially my fault.” Seraphel sighed. “Let me look at your leg.”
The man tilted his head slightly. “You can heal shattered muscles?”
“No.”
“Torn meridians?”
“No.”
“Internal damage?”
“No.”
A pause followed. “Then what exactly can you do?”
Seraphel pointed toward the growing pool of blood. “I can stop you from leaking all over the floor.”
For a second, silence filled the cave. Then the man laughed—a genuine, low, and amused sound. Apparently he found that answer far funnier than she had intended.
“I’ll consider it.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a refusal.”
“It is.”
She rolled her eyes. Unbelievable. The man seemed entirely content with bleeding to death.
Outside, the wind howled and snow battered the cave entrance relentlessly. Any hope of leaving tonight had vanished as the storm
had only grown worse.
Her thoughts drifted briefly toward Elara. The maid was probably worried sick by now, pacing, panicking, and possibly preparing to march into a blizzard despite having no sense of self-preservation. A small smile touched Seraphel’s lips. She would definitely have to apologize later.
Moving toward the fire, she added another log from a nearby pile. The flames brightened immediately, flooding the cave with warm orange light.
Someone had clearly used this place before, and judging from the man’s complete familiarity with it, she didn’t need to guess who.
“What is a woman like you really doing out here?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts again. “We may be near the Northern border, but this is still Eastern territory. A dangerous place for a lady to wander alone.”
Seraphel returned to her seat. “I live nearby.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
“And what were you doing?”
“Hunting.”
The answer came easily. The man stared at her. “Hunting.”
“Yes.” His gaze slowly moved from her face to the tiny hunting knife at her waist and back again. Seraphel remained completely
expressionless.
He sighed. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Not particularly.”
For a moment, neither spoke. Then she leaned slightly forward. “How about you?”
His eyebrow rose. “What about me?”
“What is a high-level weapon master doing near the Eastern border?”
His answer came instantly. “I fell.”
Seraphel stared. He stared back.
“I see.”
“Mmm.”
“And the sword box?”
“A hobby.”
“The blood?”
“Unfortunate.”
“The bear?”
“A misunderstanding.”
Seraphel laughed—actually laughed—for the first time in what felt like forever. The man smiled. Neither believed a single word the other said, yet strangely, that made things easier.
There was no trust between them, no expectations, and no obligations. Just two strangers exchanging obvious lies while sheltering from the storm. It was oddly refreshing.
The man placed another strip of meat over the fire, and the rich aroma quickly filled the cave. Seraphel accepted a piece when he
offered it.
“You eat surprisingly well for someone hunting rabbits,” he remarked.
She took a bite. “And you cook surprisingly well for someone who fell.”
His smile widened. “Fair point.”
The conversation continued naturally after that. He claimed to be a merchant. She claimed to be a herbalist.
He claimed bandits had attacked him. She claimed she collected rare mountain plants. Both stories were terrible, both knew it, and neither cared.
And somewhere during that exchange of elegant lies and playful insults, Seraphel found herself relaxing—truly relaxing. No Solvaine Clan, no expectations, no family and no destiny. For one night, she wasn’t the forgotten daughter, the future victim, or the woman desperately trying to rewrite fate.
She was simply Seraphel, sitting beside a fire, eating roasted meat, and talking to an irritating stranger. The realization felt strangely
liberating.
Time passed. The fire burned lower and the storm outside grew stronger. Eventually, the man pulled a small flask from his robes and took a drink.
“You know,” he said lazily, “for someone who claims to live nearby, you seem remarkably lost.”
Seraphel tilted her head, the firelight dancing in her dark eyes. “And for someone who claims he merely fell, you seem remarkably comfortable bleeding to death.”
For a second, there was silence. Then the man laughed—a deep, genuine sound that echoed softly through the cave. To her surprise,
Seraphel found herself smiling back.
Perhaps spending a night trapped in a cave with a suspicious Northerner wasn’t the worst thing fate had thrown at her.
Though somehow, looking at the amused smile on his face and the secrets hidden behind it, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this chance encounter was going to cause her far more trouble than a demonic bear ever could.
- Writer
