The sun breaks through the gathering clouds, a gold beam of light caressing my face with its warmth. Despite the depths of winter, Spring floats to me on the beam of light.
My heart cries out for my Winter Star, and her essence washes over me as if the universe itself is giving me one more taste of her, one more chance at the warmth of her before I cleanse this world of Ben and the men like him.
Perhaps I will finally die after all. It will be a worthy death. I close my eyes and picture her face in my mind, all the little sun kissed dots, “freckles” she called them.
I imagine the flush of her skin beneath me, the little cries she makes when her pleasure blooms. The vision is so real, I can not just sense her, but I can smell her. Not just a drift on the wind but something tangible.
My eyes snap open as her presence becomes stronger. I’m not just imagining her here. She is near.
The realization that she has chosen to return has my heart pounding and a strange ache twisting in my chest. She has chosen me. Not the plant. Not the world beyond these mountains.
Me.
She was desperate for the flower before. Desperate to save herself. And I let that desperation convince me she would never choose me. That I was only an obstacle, a means to an end. And maybe, in the dark and lonely place deep in my soul, I thought I wasn’t worth choosing.
But now—now, she stands on my land again. The mountain and the trees whisper to me excitedly, the land itself rejoicing in her presence. She is facing the storm, the cold, the danger. She walks this path knowing what waits in the shadows. KnowingIwait in the shadows.
And still, she comes.
I should not want this. I should not care.
But I do.
She has made her choice. And in doing so, she has undone the doubt I tried to carve into my own bones. She has sealed the bond I tried to reject.
She is mine. And I am hers.
I repeat my vow, just as I did when I first watched her. No one will harm her again. No one will take her from me. Not now. Not ever.
I swear it to the river that carves the stone, to the wind that howls through the peaks, to the mountain that will bury the bones of these men. I swear it to my Sruhnar, my Winter Star.
I drag my claw across my palm, let my blood spill onto the frozen earth. She has chosen. And so have I.
She must make this journey. This is her path to walk. I will watch, and I will protect, but I will not, cannot, interfere. She does not need to be saved—she needs only to see the strength that has always been hers.
I mark the path, knowing she will see and she will understand. I carve her name into the sentinel stones, dragging my claws through the frozen rock with slow, deliberate strokes. I rub the fresh cut of my palm over the etching. A guide. A claim.
I move quickly now, leaving more signs—breadcrumbs in the snow. Markers only she will recognize, meant for her eyes alone.
She will follow them. I know she will come. And when she does, I will be waiting.
I lift my gaze to the sky as the first howling gusts of a storm begin to pick up, swirling around me. Ben and his men have sealed their fate. They have shattered the balance. The mountain will take its due.
A deep, rumbling growl builds in my chest as I step back into the shadows.
Let them come.
Chapter Thirty-One
Dahlia
Iglance around to make sure no one is in sight before heading north, back toward the bridge I crossed just yesterday. The river is swollen from the fresh snowfall, its roar filling the air as I grip the rope railings.
“Dahlia!”
I spin around, my heart leaping into my throat at the sudden sound of my name. Relief floods me when I recognize Sita instead of Ben or someone from his group.
“Sita! You scared me half to death!” I press a gloved hand to my chest, my heart pounding beneath my parka.
