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“Winter’s coming,” she murmured, watching as more leaves drifted from the branches above, painting the ground in russet and gold. “My first winter here.”

He sat next to her and put his arm around her, his warmth a shield against the chill. “Are you nervous?”

“No.” She leaned into him with a contented sigh. “I’ve weathered winters alone before. Now I have you.”

The sun dipped lower, painting the sky in strokes of orange and pink. In the distance, mountains stood like sentinels against the horizon. This was their ritual now—these quiet moments stolen from days filled with preparation and vigilance.

“I never thought I’d have this,” he said, his voice low. He rarely spoke of his feelings, but here, away from watchful eyes, he sometimes let his guard down.

She rested her head against his shoulder. “Neither did I.”

Another gust of wind sent leaves dancing around them. The air carried the scent of woodsmoke and pine, and beneath it all, the first hint of frost. Soon the mountains would be blanketed in snow, the paths treacherous with ice.

But for now, there was only this—the fading light, the kaleidoscope of autumn colors, and the steady beat of Egon’s heart against her cheek.

Lyric woke with a start,her heart hammering against her ribs. The remnants of her dream clung to her like cobwebs—stone walls, crashing waves, and a familiar face twisted with doubt. She pressed a hand to her forehead, finding it slick with sweat despite the chill in the air.

Beside her, Egon slept peacefully, his breathing deep and even. Careful not to disturb him, she slipped from beneath the furs and padded to the window. Outside, stars pierced the velvet darkness, but they offered no comfort tonight.

The vision had been so vivid. Khorrek—the warrior who had tracked them, fought Egon, then vanished—standing alone on a battlement of Lasseran’s castle in Kel’Vara. She’d never been to the castle, yet somehow she knew the stones beneath his feet, the taste of salt in the air, the relentless crash of waves against jagged rocks below.

She hugged herself, trying to shake the chill that had nothing to do with the night air. In her vision, Khorrek’s face had been a mask of conflict, his eyes haunted as he gazed out over the turbulent sea. The certainty that had driven him when they’d met was crumbling, doubt taking root where conviction had once stood firm.

She’d felt his thoughts as if they were her own—his growing unease with Lasseran’s methods, his fear of what was to come. The Five Kingdoms stood on the precipice of war, and Khorrek was caught between loyalty and conscience.

“What does it mean?” she whispered to the darkness. Was this another message from Freja, like the warning about Ulric? Or simply her own fears taking shape in dreams?

She pressed her forehead against the cool glass, watching her breath fog the pane. Something was shifting in the balance of power—she could feel it. And somehow, Khorrek stood at a crossroads that would affect them all.