My eyes are locked on hers and my whole body is locked in place, frozen between the need to go to her and the fear of what I’ll do when I get there.
She sees it. I know she sees it. The white-knuckle grip. The cracked wood. The way my whole body is angled toward her and held back at the same time.
She doesn’t look away either.
The moment stretches between us. My control cracking at the edges. One more second. One more heartbeat. I am going to get up. I am going to cross this room.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Heavy knocks on the outer door. I am on my feet with my spear before the sound finishes.
“Hide.”
Eseld is already moving. That flat look in her eyes, all the softness gone in an instant. She slips into the storage alcove and pulls the curtain across. By the time I reach the door I cannot hear her breathing.
I open the door.
Two scouts in the snow. Jötunn from Haldrek’s clan. Kora, the one in front, is someone I knew once. Back when I bothered knowing people.
“Thyran.” She nods, eyes scanning what she can see of the hall behind me. “Checking the perimeter.”
“Kora.”
“Quiet out here?”
“Always.”
She tries to look past me. I shift my weight. I fill the doorway. She would have to go through me.
“We found tracks,” she says. Careful tone. “South of the ridge. Human boots.”
I keep my expression flat. “Humans die in the Wastes.”
“Usually. But Haldrek is nervous. Rumors of soldiers moving north. Looking for a deserter.”
“Haven’t seen anyone.”
Kora studies my face. We knew each other once. Before Vortek. Before the silence. She has learned not to push.
“You look warm,” she says.
My temperature spikes. I feel heat flush across my neck. “Fire’s hot.”
“Right.” She steps back. Her partner follows. “If you see the human, don’t kill it. Bring it to Haldrek. He wants to question it before it freezes.”
“Understood.”
“Stay warm, hermit.”
They turn and trudge into the snow. I watch until they crest the ridge and disappear. Only then do I close the door and bar it.
“They’re gone.”
Eseld steps out of the storage alcove with a knife in her hand. One of my skinning blades. Reverse grip. She knows how to use it. Her eyes are flat and cold. The eyes of someone who has killed before and will again if she has to.
“They’re looking for me,” she says.
“Yes.”
