hey didn’t make it as far as they should have by nightfall.

  The sun slipped lower, bleeding amber and wine-red over the jagged peaks ahead. The sky smoldered with the dying light, streaks of violet stretching across the vast expanse before fading into the encroaching dark. The air carried the crisp bite of high-altitude cold, whispering over the uneven stone path and rustling through the gnarled pines that clung stubbornly to the mountainside.

  The trail stretched upward into the looming pass, steep and narrow, cut into the bones of the mountain itself. Loose stones skittered beneath their boots, tumbling noisily down the incline, swallowed by the deepening dusk. The fading light painted the path in long, splintered shadows, making the uneven terrain look even more treacherous. Here, among the towering cliffs, the world felt ancient and untamed, as though it had been forgotten by time.

  Shadow slowed their pace before it was necessary.

  The silence between them stretched, brittle as frost-laced leaves. The only sounds were the distant caw of a bird circling overhead and the whisper of the wind curling through the pass. Each footstep was measured, each breath shallow against the thinning air.

  When Seraphine’s boot slipped on a loose stone, she was barely thrown off balance, but he was there in an instant, steadying her elbow. His hand closed around her arm, firm and sure, the heat of his grip bleeding through her sleeve, a stark contrast to the mountain’s encroaching chill. He barely needed to catch her, yet he held on a fraction too long.

  She stilled. The brief contact, fleeting but deliberate, twisted sharply in her chest.

  His fingers lingered for a beat. Then he let go.

  The brief slip cost her nothing—her ankle was steady beneath her, only faintly tender—but when she shifted her weight, testing it carefully, she felt the pull of his gaze. Shadow’s eyes were sharp, too assessing. His lips pressed into a thin line, already deciding for her.

  The next words were inevitable.

  “We stop here,” he said, flat and final.

  Seraphine turned to him, pulse tightening in her throat. The wind carried the scent of cold stone and pine resin, crisp and sharp against the warmth still lingering on her skin from his touch. She swallowed against the tightness coiling in her chest.

  “We can still make it through the pass before dark.”

  His jaw hardened. The mountain cast deep shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp lines of his features.

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  He scanned the ridgeline again, gaze narrowing as though confirming a threat neither of them had seen. His voice was even, but his eyes were moving too much. The wind stirred his cloak, sending the dark fabric whispering around his legs.

  She shifted again, planting her foot carefully against the stone. Fine. Steady. Her pulse thudded once, sharply. He knows that.

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  Her fingers curled against her palm. She watched the faint, restless twitch in his hand as it hovered near the strap of his pack—fidgeting. Busywork.

  She exhaled sharply, a tight breath through her nose, but didn’t argue.

  Without another word, he turned and moved into the brush, his broad shoulders disappearing into the darkening trees. She watched him go, the sharp lines of him swallowed by the deepening dusk, and only then did she release the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  The fire crackled low between them, embers glowing orange and red, casting restless shadows along the rocky outcrop. The smell of charred wood and pine resin hung in the air, mixing with the crisp bite of the mountain breeze. The temperature had dropped sharply, the cold settling deep into her bones despite the fire’s feeble warmth.

  They sat on opposite sides of the flames. He was quiet, sharpening his dagger with slow, deliberate movements. The rhythmic scrape of the whetstone against steel was the only sound between them, steady and methodical. She watched the firelight flicker across the blade’s edge, sharp and restless, mirroring the tension between them.

  It was suffocating. The heavy silence. The unspoken things clogging the space between them.

  Finally, she snapped. “Do you even want me to go back?”

  Her voice cut through the crackle of the fire, brittle and defiant.

  His hands stilled. The whetstone paused mid-stroke along the dagger’s edge. Slowly, deliberately, he set it aside. He didn’t look at her right away. Instead, he stared into the fire, his jaw tight, his throat working once before he spoke.

  “What I want,” he said evenly, voice low and quiet, “doesn’t matter.”

  The words struck her like a slap.

  Her chest tightened with something hot and sharp, anger prickling at her skin. She hated the calm in his voice—the quiet finality of it. Like he’d already decided for her. Like her feelings were something irrelevant. Disposable. Her nails bit into her palms as she clenched her fists.

  “Coward,” she whispered bitterly, more to herself than to him.

  His eyes snapped to hers, cold and cutting, but she didn’t flinch. The heat in her gaze met the iron in his, neither giving ground. She could feel the tension stretch taut between them, thin as wire, ready to snap.

  He stood and walked a short distance from the fire, shedding his cloak. He draped it over her shoulders in one wordless motion, the rough wool still warm from his body.

  She glared up at him, ready to hurl it back in his face.

  When she met his eyes, the sharp retort died on her tongue. There was no anger there. No coldness. Only quiet resignation—the kind that stripped him bare.

  He turned and settled himself down on the other side of the fire, deliberately putting space between them.

  Too much space.

  The night stretched long and cold.

  The fire burned low, and the blanket was thin. Though she had his cloak, the chill still crept in through the edges, needling against her skin. She curled in on herself, drawing the rough fabric tightly around her.

  Eventually, sleep took her.

  For a time, the forest was silent save for the occasional snap of a distant branch or the faint rustle of leaves. The firelight dimmed to a dull orange glow.

  Sometime in the night, she woke.

  Her eyes fluttered open lazily, her breath a slow, sleepy exhale. It took her a moment to realize it—his warmth at her back.

  He had shifted closer. At first, she thought she was dreaming. Then she felt it—the steady rise and fall of his breath just behind her, his warmth ghosting faintly against the back of her neck. He wasn’t touching her. Not quite. But the heat of him radiated close enough to bleed through the fabric, seeping into her skin.

  She stayed perfectly still, her heart pounding in her chest, thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

  He whispered something. It was low, broken, and rough with sleep. A soft murmur, barely louder than a breath, spoken in his own language—a language she didn’t know.

  She recognized the longing in it. The sorrow. Her throat tightened.

  She shut her eyes quickly, feigning sleep. She didn’t dare move, didn’t dare breathe too deeply.

  She wasn’t ready to lose the small piece of him she still had.