“She thinks I’m the enemy.”
“Are you?”
I don’t answer. I don’t lie. I just look back at the lodge sitting in the distance, dark against the trees, and feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. Not guilt or shame. Just uncertainty.
“She’s standing in the way,” I say.
“She’s standing for something.”
I stay until the pipe burns out, then nod once and head back to the inn.
The room feels colder tonight, despite the heater groaning in the corner. I sit on the edge of the bed, coat still on, staring at the file folder Thomas sent over this afternoon. Profit margins. Site plans. Potential investors already circling like crows. The numbers are solid. The plan is sound. The return will be staggering.
But the story’s starting to feel rotten.
CHAPTER 7
CLARA
The power dies with a sigh. Not a bang, not a pop, just a soft whimper of surrender from the old fuse box tucked behind the pantry shelves, like the lodge itself is finally admitting defeat. One second the overhead bulb is flickering dim and sad, the next it’s nothing but shadows and the wind pressing against the windows like it's trying to come in and make itself at home.
I stand there for a second, the lantern in my hand still unlit, the cold already starting to creep back under my sleeves. I should’ve seen this coming. The wires have been groaning all week, and the storm’s rolling over the ridge faster than the forecast promised. Still, I was holding out hope, like an idiot. Like maybe this place had one more miracle in its bones.
“Great,” I mutter, grabbing the emergency matches from the drawer and striking one against the side of the box. It flares bright, sulphur and heat, and I light the lantern before the flame bites my fingers.
The kitchen glows gold for half a second, flickering across peeling linoleum and chipped enamel, and I swear I can hear Gran’s voice in the rafters telling me not to curse indoors.
I curse anyway.
Outside, the snow is thick and fast, swirling like powdered sugar through the trees, and the wind’s howling loud enough to drown out the brittle creaks of the lodge’s tired frame. I shove the lantern onto the table and cross to the front window, but visibility’s shot to hell. The drive’s buried, the path to the road already disappeared under a foot of white, and the town might as well be on the moon.
Which means I’m alone. No power. No cell service. No heat except for the fireplace that eats wood like it’s got a grudge.
I wrap my arms tight around myself, biting the inside of my cheek. I should be panicking. I should be pacing or writing a very detailed list of all the ways I’m about to freeze to death. But mostly, I’m just tired. Tired in a way that starts in the bones and makes itself at home in the soul.
I grab my coat off the hook, double up on scarves, and make for the side shed where we keep the firewood. I don’t even bother with boots. Just slippers and fury and sheer momentum.
The shed door jams, of course, swollen from the cold, and I have to throw my shoulder into it twice before it gives. Inside, the stack of firewood looks sad and picked over. I manage to gather enough for one good burn and half a bad one, but my fingers are stiff by the time I get back, and my breath is fogging in the hallway.
I get the fire going with more prayer than skill, feeding it like it’s a stubborn child and muttering threats under my breath until the flames finally catch. The crackle of kindling turns into the deep hiss of wet logs heating too fast, and I settle back on the floor in front of it, hugging my knees.
This isn’t cozy. This isn’t rustic charm and fuzzy socks and marshmallows over the hearth. This is survival, dressed in nostalgia’s clothes, and I’m starting to think I’ve made a mistake in trying to save this place.
I hear the knock before I see the light.
Three sharp raps, not panicked but firm, and the glow of a lantern sweeping across the snow on the porch. For a half-second, my brain jumps to the ridiculous—wolves, ghosts, Christmas carolers possessed by the spirit of demolition—but when the knock comes again, slower this time, I know who it is.
I open the door before I talk myself out of it.
And there he is.
Dralgor Veyr, looking like some kind of storm-tossed nightmare carved from granite and shadow, standing in the swirl of snow with an armful of split firewood and a bag of what smells like food tucked under one arm. His coat is dusted with snow, his tusks gleaming in the lantern light, and his eyes… they’re the color of dusk over a battlefield. Cold, unreadable, but not unkind. Not tonight.
“I brought heat,” he says, holding up the wood. “And dinner.”
I stare at him.
Then I step back and let him in.
