“It’s cold… and it’s just the two of us in here. We don’t have a choice,” the woman said, her voice trembling—but not from fear alone.
The storm had swallowed the world whole.
Snow hammered against the wooden walls of the abandoned trading hut, howling through every crack like something alive. The plains outside had disappeared into a white void, and Mason Hail knew one thing with certainty—no one survived a night like this out there.
He had barely made it in.
His horse had collapsed a mile back. His fingers were still numb. His coat stiff with ice.
But the cold wasn’t what made him stop in the doorway.
It was her.
She sat in the far corner, back pressed against the wall, wrapped in a blanket too thin to matter. Her dark hair clung to her face, damp with melted snow. Her wrists—raw, bruised—told a story he didn’t need to ask about.
And her eyes.
Sharp.
Alert.
Alive in a way that meant she trusted nothing.
Not even him.
Mason didn’t move closer.
Didn’t speak.
He just stepped inside slowly and closed the door behind him, shutting out the screaming wind.
For a moment, they just stared at each other.
Two strangers.
One room.
One night that could kill them both.
He raised his hands slightly, palms open.
Not surrender.
Not weakness.
Just… clarity.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quietly.
She didn’t answer.
Didn’t relax.
But she didn’t reach for anything either.
That was enough.
Mason moved carefully toward the cold fireplace, every step deliberate. He crouched, pulled out flint, and struck it once… twice…
On the third spark, the fire caught.
Slow at first.
Then stronger.
Orange light filled the room, pushing the darkness back into the corners.
The change was immediate.