Lyra Silverfang stood at the forest edge, counting the trees she could not see. Her caravan was gone. The others had rolled on without her, and now a storm swept down off the dark hills toward her. She wanted inside the forest, where the trees would block the wind. But the cold reached her first. It cut through her coat and turned her fingers stiff. She knew the danger. Enter now, and the cold would drop her before she found shelter. She would freeze among the trees, lost and alone. Wait outside, and the open wind would do the same. Sleet began to fall. Lyra made her choice. She pulled her coat tight and stepped under the first branches. Inside, the wind died. The trees held it back, just as she hoped. But the dark pressed close, and she could not tell one path from another. She walked. Snow hissed in the canopy above. Her feet found roots and stones she could not see. Soon she had no idea which way she had come. She was lost, exactly as she had feared. A twig snapped behind her. Lyra spun around. Nothing. Only black trunks and falling snow. She turned to go forward and froze. A werewolf stood in her path. He was huge, taller than any man, his fur dark and wet. His clothes hung in torn strips across his chest. Yellow eyes caught what little light there was. His breath steamed between long teeth. Lyra ran. She crashed through branches, not caring where they led. Behind her came heavy steps, fast and closing. Then weight slammed into her back. She hit the snow. Claws pinned her shoulders. She shut her eyes and waited for the end. "Marcus! Down, boy!" A woman's voice cut through the storm. The weight lifted at once. Lyra rolled over, gasping. The werewolf backed away, head low, obeying like a scolded dog. A woman walked out of the shadows. She was young, with long black hair and pale skin, wearing a dark dress stitched with silver thread. Snow did not seem to touch her. She looked at Lyra with calm eyes, the way a person looks at a stray found on the road. "Are you alright?" the woman asked. Lyra pushed herself up, shaking. "You control that thing?" "His name is Marcus." The woman held out a hand. "I'm Renee. You shouldn't be out here. The storm will kill you long before he would." Lyra stared at the offered hand. She had no caravan, no path, and no way to survive the cold alone. The witch and her werewolf were the only warmth in the whole forest. She took the hand. Renee pulled her up and smiled. "Good. Then follow me. But understand something first." Her grip tightened. "No one who comes to my home leaves it the same." Lyra had escaped the storm. Now she walked into something worse, and she had already said yes.

Renee led the way up a long hill. Marcus walked behind them, silent now, his heavy steps crunching the snow. Lyra followed because she had no choice. Her legs shook with every step. The cold had sunk deep into her bones. At the top of the hill stood a manor. It rose black against the storm, with steep roofs and pointed windows. Orange firelight glowed behind the glass. Below, far down the slope, Lyra saw the small lights of a village. She wondered if anyone there knew who lived up here. "Keep moving," Renee said. "You're turning blue." Lyra's teeth chattered too hard to answer. She climbed the stone steps. Marcus pushed the heavy doors open with one clawed hand, then stood aside like a guard. Inside, warmth hit her like a wall. A fire burned in a great stone hearth. Lyra stumbled toward it and dropped to her knees on the rug. She held her hands to the flames. Her fingers burned as feeling came back. An old man appeared in the doorway. He wore a black butler's suit, pressed and neat, with white gloves. His face was lined and tired. He looked at Lyra on the floor and did not seem surprised. "Another one, madam," he said. His voice was flat. "Shall I prepare the east room?" "Please, Reginald," Renee said. She pulled off her gloves. "And bring dry clothes. Hers are soaked through." Reginald bowed. But before he turned, his eyes met Lyra's. He gave a small, sad shake of his head. The gesture was quick. Renee did not see it. Lyra did. "Warm yourself," Renee said. She crossed to a tall chair and sat. "You'll feel human again soon." Lyra stayed by the fire. The shivering slowed. Her coat steamed in the heat. For the first time since the caravan left her, she was not dying. She let out a long breath. Then she looked around the room. The doors had shut behind her. Marcus sat in the corner, watching with yellow eyes. Reginald was gone. The windows showed only black storm and the far village lights, too distant to reach. She was warm. She was alive. And she was inside, with no way she knew back out. "Thank you," Lyra said. The words felt strange. "For not letting me freeze." Renee smiled. "Of course. You're my guest now." She folded her hands. "Reginald will show you your room. Rest. We'll talk in the morning." Lyra stood. Her clothes were drying. Her strength was coming back. But Reginald's sad shake of the head stayed in her mind. The old man had warned her without a word. Whatever this place was, he wanted out, and he could not leave. The storm had wanted to kill her. The manor only wanted to keep her. Lyra was not sure which was worse.