Running away is a lie people tell themselves.
No matter how far I run, they follow.
I feel them in the silence between my breaths, in the way the wind hesitates before touching my skin. Shadows stretch too long behind me, whispering my name like a curse. They will never stop hunting me—not after what I am, not after what they took from me.
The only place beyond their reach is the North.
A frozen land ruled by iron laws and colder hearts. A place where their influence ends.
I would rather kneel before my enemies and beg for mercy than stay with them for another minute.
My lungs burn as I cross the final miles. Blood stains the hem of my cloak. I don't remember when my legs started shaking—only that stopping is not an option. Stopping means death.
When the Northern gates finally rise before me, carved from black stone and ancient magic, I almost collapse.
The guards barely glance at me as I slip inside with a group of travelers from the East. To them, I am nothing. A tired girl. A nobody.
Good.
The North greets me with merciless cold. Snow bites into my skin like teeth, but I welcome it. Cold does not betray you. Cold does not lie.
Nine hours pass.
Nine hours of wandering streets lined with silver lanterns and frozen fountains. Nine hours of hunger gnawing at my ribs. Nine hours of knowing that survival here will be harder than escape ever was.
Just as despair begins to hollow me out, I see her.
A noblewoman, wrapped in crimson fur. An omega.
She stands near a manor gate, her voice calm but tired as she speaks to a steward.
"—looking for a personal maid."
My heart stutters.
A noble omega searching for help in the North is not luck.
It is fate—cruel, dangerous fate.
I step forward before fear can stop me.