The first snowfall came quietly in the night.
By morning, the rogue lands were cloaked in white, the jagged trees softened by a blanket of frost. Evelyn stood on the porch of the cabin, arms folded over her chest as she watched flakes swirl through the air like ghostly dancers. The world looked deceptively peaceful.
She didn’t trust it.
Behind her, Ronan was sharpening a blade, the rhythmic scrape of metal against stone somehow comforting in its consistency. Everything about him was methodical—every movement, every breath. He didn’t speak unless necessary. But Evelyn had learned to read the silence between his words.
“We need to move soon,” he said finally, not looking up.
Evelyn turned slightly. “Why?”
“They’ll return. And next time, it won’t be five.”
She nodded. “Let them come. I
