Scarlett Ashford knelt in the ash of her village and pressed her palm to a bootprint already crusting with frost. The warlord who killed her kin had made this mark. She had followed it for six days. Now the snow filled it faster than she could read it. If she lost the trail, she lost the man who left her for dead among her family. Her wolf paced the ruined threshold behind her. Its white coat matched the snow. It lifted its head and stared north, ears sharp, then whined low. Scarlett trusted that whine more than her own eyes. She stood, gripped her knife, and followed the animal into the trees. The wolf led her uphill for hours. Cold burned her lungs. She wanted to stop, but stopping meant the trail died. Near dusk the wolf halted at a cliff face and scratched the stone. Scarlett brushed away the snow and found carved symbols beneath. She knew the shapes. Her kin had cut them into shrines like this one for generations. One line held a message in her family's hand. The letters were fresh, gouged in haste. "They ride for the cottage in the valley. Warn no one. Trust no one who served him." Her mother had carved this while fleeing. Scarlett pressed her forehead to the cold rock. The dead had left her a direction. She followed the wolf down into the valley. Mist hung between the pines like something half asleep. A small stone cottage sat in the fog, its roof green, its door glowing faintly. A painted sign read, "In her dreams." Smoke curled from the chimney. Someone lived here. Someone her mother had pointed her toward. Scarlett pushed the door open without knocking. A man sat by the fire, one leg stretched stiff before him. A long scar split his jaw. He did not rise. He only looked at her wolf, then at her red hair, and set down his cup. "You have the Ashford look," he said. "I wondered if any of you lived." Her knife was in her hand before she chose to draw it. "You knew my family." "I marched under the same banner that burned them." He spread his empty hands. "I left his service. That is why I hide in a place that feels like a dream. Men like him do not forget deserters." Scarlett's pulse pounded. She had lost the trail in the snow. This man knew the warlord's mind, his roads, his habits. "You will tell me where he went." The veteran studied her a long moment. "I can do better. I can tell you where he is going next." He nodded toward the fire. "But once you walk his road, girl, he will learn you are alive. And he will come for you." Scarlett sheathed her knife and sat down across from him. The trail was cold no longer. The hunter had a name to hunt, and now the hunted would hunt back.

The veteran's warning still hung in the cottage air when the wolf growled at the door. Scarlett rose and cracked it open. Fresh boot marks cut the snow beyond the trees. Not hers. Not the old man's. A scout had followed the veteran's trail here, and the scout would report a redheaded woman and a wolf. She could not run without leading him deeper. She had to end it in the valley. "Deserters leave a scent," the veteran said. He limped to the window and pointed north. "One man, maybe two. They circle before they strike. You have an hour, no more." Scarlett needed the scout close and off his guard. She looked for bait and found a strange neighbor down the path. A short blond man stood at an ice-carved table, jabbing a spoon at a bowl. Four black candles burned on the clear surface. He tasted, spat, and slammed the spoon down. "It's a disaster," he barked. "The queen wants a dessert fit for a throne of ice, and this slop tastes like wet snow. Move, I need cream." He yanked open a frost-covered fridge that glowed with cold light and hauled out a tub. "There's an armed man hunting me," Scarlett said. "I need noise and light to draw him." The chef looked at her wolf, then her knife. "Fine. You want a show? I'll give the idiot a show." He lit the candles higher and clattered every pan he owned. Scarlett hid behind the ice table while the chef whistled and cursed at his bowl. The racket carried across the snow. Within minutes a shape crept from the pines, sword low, eyes on the noise. The scout stepped past the table toward the open door. Scarlett took him from behind. She drove her shoulder into his back and pinned his sword arm against the ice. He twisted hard. She pressed her blade to his throat. "Who sent you?" she said. "The warlord. He hunts deserters." The scout grinned through his teeth. "He'll know your face by tomorrow. Others ride behind me." Scarlett went cold. Others. She could not let him carry her name back. She struck the pommel of her knife against his skull, and he dropped. The chef stared, cream dripping from his spoon. "Well. That's one way to season a valley." The veteran came out on his stiff leg and studied the fallen man's belt. "A palace crest. Ice towers." He held it up. "Your warlord dines at the ice queen's palace within the week. That is where he is going. That is where you take him." Scarlett bound the scout and looked at the crest. She had a place now, and a road. But the dead man's words rang in her ears. Others rode behind. She had bought silence with one scout, and more were already coming.