That night, I write a speech.
It’s not for the council or a legal team. It’s for the festival committee, who meets every Thursday in the basement of the church, surrounded by trays of gingerbread and passive-aggressive casserole debates. I stand in front of them, hands shaking just a little, and I tell them the truth.
I tell them that my grandmother believed in Silverpine more than she believed in bank accounts. That the lodge isn’t just an old building, it’s a memory holder. A place where stories live. A place where this town finds itself again every winter.
And then I ask them, calmly, stubbornly, if they’re willing to let a stranger come in and buy out those memories. If they’re okay trading tradition for a resort spa and a gift shop that smells like imported pine.
The room stays quiet for a breath longer than I like. But then Mrs. Anders stands up and claps. One by one, they follow. Not loud, not flashy, but real. Committed.
“We’ll hold the festival at the lodge,” Mayor Thorne says afterward, voice quieter than usual. “At least until the courts tell us we can’t.”
I nod. I don’t smile. But I feel something settle in my chest, firm and unshakable.
Dralgor Veyr may own the ground beneath the lodge.
But he doesn’t own me. And he doesn’t own this town.
CHAPTER 4
DRALGOR
Iwalk Silverpine’s streets like I walk any acquisition site, with my coat buttoned against the wind and my eyes narrowed against the glare off the snowbanks. The town is exactly what I expected. Wooden storefronts trimmed in tinsel, hand-painted signs with whimsical fonts, and too many wreaths nailed to windows. It’s the kind of place that sells nostalgia in bulk and serves it with whipped cream on top. I don’t trust places like this. They reek of stories and sentiment, and sentiment has no place in my work.
Thomas trails behind me, muttering notes into his voice recorder, his gloved hands juggling both his tablet and a coffee cup that’s already stained his jacket cuff. He’s been trying to catch up with me since we left the inn. I didn’t invite him. I don’t care if his boots get soaked or his lungs freeze. If he wants to be here, he can keep pace.
“Dralgor,” he pants, finally catching up, “we need to talk strategy. There’s been chatter. The locals are organizing.”
“I expected that,” I say without slowing down.
“They’re circulating flyers. There was a small rally at the grocer’s yesterday. And apparently, she spoke at the festival committee meeting last night.”
“She?” I know exactly who he means, but I say it anyway because it forces him to acknowledge the core of the issue.
“Clara Wynn.”
Her name feels sharp when spoken aloud. It has weight, grit. She’s made herself the center of this mess faster than I thought possible. And the town, damn them, seems willing to orbit her like she’s the second coming of winter itself.
“They’re holding the festival at the lodge,” Thomas adds. “Unofficially.”
“Good,” I say, pausing at the corner where a brass lamppost leans just slightly off center like the town couldn’t bear to straighten it. “Let them gather.”
Thomas blinks. “That’s your position?”
“They’ll be easier to discredit if they’re all under one roof.”
He mutters something under his breath, but I don’t ask him to repeat it. Instead, I cross to the storefront across the street, a glass-paned bakery with a garland-wrapped door and a chalkboard sign that readsToday’s Special: Snowflake Shortbread & Sass.I catch my reflection in the window. My coat’s dusted with frost, my tusks gleam against the overcast light, and I look exactly how I feel, untouchable. Until I see her.
Clara Wynn is inside, bent over a tray of pastries, arguing with the human woman behind the counter: her friend, the one who called me something crude during the council recess. Her face is animated, cheeks flushed, hands waving as she makes some impassioned point about ribbon placement or cookie texture. I can’t hear her, but I can read the heat in her posture, the way she leans forward like she’s trying to pull the world into motion with sheer force of will.
I shouldn’t stop. I don’t stop. But I do slow.
She glances toward the window, sensing me like an animal might sense a shift in the wind, and for a half-second, our eyes meet. Her expression goes still, then colder than the frost onthe glass. She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t blink. Just stares like she’s daring me to try anything.
I keep walking.
Thomas hustles to my side again. “I still say we file the injunction. Or, if you want it cleaner, we pull the permits for the town’s festival access. We’ve got enough legal precedent from the acquisition to do it without a full hearing.”
“No.”
