The courtyard still smelled of iron and cold when Raymond crossed it.
He didn't hurry. He didn't need to. Every step seemed to push the noise of the onlookers back until the only sound was snow crunching under his boots.
He stopped in front of Clara, close enough that the heat from her skin—still carrying the wolf—rose between them.
---
“Three winters ago," he said, his voice low but clear enough for the crowd to hear, “a girl led me out of a killing cold. She asked nothing. She didn't even ask my name."
Clara met his gaze. “I remember a man who didn't demand thanks."
The words carried, even though she hadn't raised her voice.
---
Gasps rippled through the onlookers.
James stiffened; Evan and Michael exchanged uncertain glances.
Jolene's lashes fluttered, her practiced innocence
