Olesia tightened the straps on her pack and stepped into the wind. The blizzard had come early, three weeks too soon, and the northern pass was closing fast. She had waited a year to walk this trail. She would not wait another. Somewhere past the ridge, he had ridden toward lights before dawn, and she meant to follow. She pulled the small brass compass from her coat. Its starry face turned steady against her glove, the engraved constellations catching weak light. The needle held north. The trail did not. Ice-bent willows lined the road as markers, their frozen branches drooping under fresh snow. She counted them as she walked. Three. Four. The fifth was buried to its crown. The sixth was gone. A pale owl watched her from a drift, feathers like cut glass. It did not move as she passed. At the last bend stood a low hut of ice blocks, a carved totem leaning beside its door. Shelter. A choice. Olesia did not stop. She checked the compass, set her shoulder to the wind, and walked past the hut into the closing white. Behind her, the trail filled in. There would be no going back now.