The stone path is uneven beneath our steps—rough-hewn and ancient, worn smooth in some places by rain and time, jagged in others where the mountain refused to be tamed. The long trees rise on either side of us, their branches heavy with golden fairy lights that glow softly against the deepening dark, casting shifting shadows across the ground.
Silas walks ahead, holding my hand. His fingers are laced through mine, his skin still cold against my warmth—like he's been carved from winter itself and placed beside me. His face is bright with excitement, untouched by exhaustion, as if the hours of driving and the climb uphill have cost him nothing at all.
His hair is still soft, still falling across his temple in that same careless way it did this morning. His cheeks are flushed—not from effort, but from the cold, or maybe from something else entirely.
I follow behind him, my face flat, my thoughts tangled somewhere between irritation and something I refuse to name.
