The wind on the cliff froze when Nyra saw him.
Not because the world stilled—her own breath just wouldn’t come.
The man waited at the edge of the mist, old in a way that memory couldn’t measure. He wore layers of cloth that barely moved in the cold, windless quiet. He didn’t look like a soldier, or a prisoner, or even a wandering beggar.
He felt like someone who’d been waiting. For her.
Nyra’s shaking hand tightened around her dagger. She tried to steady herself, but her arm still trembled.
She was tired—too tired to keep running. Blood still trickled from her wounded arm. Her lungs burned from the climb.
But in this moment, none of it mattered.
The stranger smiled at her like he already knew how their meeting would end.
“Stay back,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
It
