Camille didn't feel the cold anymore.
She walked barefoot now, her boots abandoned somewhere beyond the second stone, the frost crunching beneath her steps without sinking in. The pain in her feet was distant, as if her body no longer belonged solely to her. It was something she wore now, like a coat. Something she could step out of, if needed.
The bond mark on her palm burned.
Not with fire.
With memory.
Each step forward pulled more of it out images, sounds, fragments. Her mother's lullaby. The weight of chains. A voice whispering you were never meant to wake.
The forest ahead opened.
And there he was.
Sterling.
Waiting like he knew she would come.
He stood in a clearing of stone and snow, cloak fluttering in the wind, hands behind his back. His silver hair was braided neatly down his spine, as if he'd prepared for this meeting long before she ever decided to run.
"You're early," he said.
Camille didn't stop walking until she was ten feet away.
"I'm not here for you."
