The snow falls harder, blinding, and I let it cover me until I can’t tell where I end and the night begins.
CHAPTER 19
CLARA
The storm hasn’t let up, though the flakes fall slower now, drifting in lazy spirals past the windows as if the sky can’t quite decide whether it’s finished with us or not. The world is buried in white, the ridge cut off from town, the pines bent under the weight of silence. Inside, the lodge smells of smoke and cinnamon, the kind of scent that should bring comfort, but my chest still feels tight as if the walls themselves are pressing in.
I sit hunched at the kitchen table, staring at a mug of cocoa Dee shoved into my hands not five minutes ago, the surface frothing with whipped cream, cinnamon sprinkled on top like she’s trying to conjure joy by force. She’s perched across from me with her clipboard cast aside for once, her eyes fixed on me like a hawk waiting for me to twitch.
“You look like a woman who’s been chewing nails,” she says, taking a loud sip from her own cup. “And unless you’ve taken up blacksmithing in secret, I’m guessing this is about him.”
My jaw tightens. I want to deny it, to roll my eyes and tell her she’s seeing ghosts where there are none, but Dee has known me too long. She can smell truth even when I drown it in sugar.
“I made a mistake,” I mutter finally, fingers tightening around the mug until the heat seeps into my palms.
Her brows shoot up. “You? A mistake? My stars, should I write this day down for the history books?”
“Dee,” I snap, sharper than I mean.
Her grin softens, and she leans forward. “Tell me.”
The words scrape out of me, rough and reluctant. “We… I… there was a night. After the lanterns, after the music. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but it did. And for a moment I thought?—”
My throat closes, and I hate how weak it makes me sound. “Then this morning I heard Thomas running his mouth, talking about the resort, about how nothing we do here matters. And Dralgor didn’t deny it. He didn’t fight it. He just stood there. So what am I supposed to think? That it meant anything to him?”
Dee sets her cup down, the ceramic clinking against the table. “You’re supposed to think that maybe men are idiots, and orcs doubly so.”
I glare at her. “That’s not helpful.”
She shrugs. “I didn’t promise helpful. I promised honest. Look, Clara, I’ve watched the way he stares at you. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first fire he’s seen in years. That’s not a ploy. That’s not something you fake. If he’s still tangled up in his empire, maybe it’s because he doesn’t know how to untangle. Doesn’t mean he didn’t mean it.”
The cocoa turns bitter on my tongue. “You sound like you’re on his side.”
“I’m on your side,” she says firmly. “Always. But being on your side means telling you when your pride is making you blind. You’ve built walls higher than the ridge itself, and you guard them like a dragon hoarding treasure. Maybe this time, you’re guarding yourself from something you actually want.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. Because she’s right, and I hate it.
By afternoon, the snow has eased enough that townsfolk begin trickling back up the ridge, some returning platters from the party, others just wanting to gawk at the lodge that’s suddenly back in circulation. I busy myself with stacking wood, sweeping floors, anything that keeps my hands moving and my thoughts at bay.
It’s Henrik who shows up at dusk, heavy boots thudding across the porch, beard rimed with frost. He carries a sack of nails over one shoulder and a coil of rope in the other, as if he decided I needed fixing as much as the lodge.
“Evening,” he rumbles, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. The warmth of the stove fogs his glasses, and he wipes them with the back of his hand before setting them straight.
“You’re not on the volunteer list,” I say, brushing snow from my sleeves.
He shrugs. “Don’t need to be. Place like this deserves a second chance. Always did.”
I watch him drop the rope by the hearth, the nails on the counter, his movements steady, unhurried. Henrik never wastes words, but when he does speak, people listen.
“You’ve been spending time with him,” he says finally, not looking at me, just studying the fire as he feeds it another log.
My pulse jumps. “That’s none of your business.”
“Maybe not. But it’s mine to warn you, if warning is needed.”
I fold my arms, defensive despite myself. “So warn me.”
He sits heavily in the armchair, the wood groaning under his weight. “Dralgor Veyr isn’t like the stories you’ve heard. Not the ones whispered in the tavern about empire and money. He’s a man carved by exile. His clan cast him out years ago, called him traitor for pushing where they wanted obedience. He’s built his life out of defiance ever since. The scars he carries aren’t just on the outside.”
