Night in Oakhaven was never truly dark. The fog and snow caught the moonlight, wrapping the village in a pale silver glow that felt cold rather than comforting. Above Shadow's Edge, the storm growled low, like a great creature turning in its restless sleep.
Inside the inn, the fire in the common room had nearly died. Embers pulsed faintly against the cracked wooden floor as Kaelen Vane sat alone by the hearth. He did not drink, nor did he reach for a book. His arms were folded, his expression distant, as though he carried a burden he had never intended to accept.
Upstairs, Sienna's soft footsteps crossed the wooden floor before fading behind her door. Silence followed.
A rustle of fabric broke it.
Grandmother Celia stepped out from the kitchen corridor, her old coat stitched and restitched from years of wear. She paused briefly before crossing the room. Kaelen sensed her presence but did not look up.
"I followed you this morning," she said.
He lifted his gaze calmly. "I know."
A faint smile touched her lips. "You slowed at the third bend. You were watching."
Wind pressed against the shutters as she continued, her voice steady but quiet. "I do not trust strangers. But I have kept my granddaughter waiting for too long."
Her eyes shifted to the dying fire. "For eleven years she has stared at that mountain from the same window. Every season, I found another excuse—the snow, the landslides, the wind. Or the hope that her father might return."
Her voice softened. "She never argued."
There had been no anger. No rebellion. Only silence—patient and unwavering.
"I followed you to see whether you would push her too hard, or treat her as a burden," she said. "You did neither."
From behind an overturned cart, she had watched him walk half a step ahead of Sienna. When the path grew slick, he slowed. When puddles darkened, he tested them first. At the third bend, where thin ice often betrayed careless feet, he stopped her with a small gesture and shifted loose stones aside with his boot.
And at the market, when a drunken man stumbled too close, Kaelen had stepped between them without hesitation. He did not raise his voice. He did not touch Sienna afterward. He simply remained there until her breathing steadied.
Protection, offered without display.
"I am afraid," Grandmother Celia admitted. "If she climbs that mountain, I may lose her as I lost her father. And if I keep her here, I will lose her slowly."
Her gaze hardened with quiet resolve. "I do not trust you. But she did not look alone beside you."
Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
Sienna appeared, wrapped in a thin blanket. She hesitated when she saw them speaking. Grandmother Celia rose and gently touched her cheek before turning away without another word. For the first time in eleven years, she did not glance toward the mountain-facing window.
She left her granddaughter in the room—with him.
Only the dying fire separated Kaelen and Sienna now.
"She followed us," he said.
Sienna nodded. She had always known.
"Are you angry?"
She shook her head.
After a moment, she stepped closer and took his hand. Her fingers were cold as she traced letters slowly against his palm.
T H A N K Y O U.
"For what?" he asked quietly.
Instead of repeating the letters, she guided his hand to rest against her chest.
Not for the drunken man.
For staying.
For not walking away.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "The mountain will not forgive."
Her fingers moved again.
I K N O W.
Then, more firmly this time—
B E T T E R T H A N N E V E R T R Y I N G.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Outside, the wind rose against the walls of the inn.
Kaelen stood and placed another log on the fire. The flames strengthened, casting warmer light across her face.
"You will not walk behind me," he said at last. "You walk beside me."
It was not a promise, but it was an agreement.
A small, fragile smile curved at Sienna's lips.
Beyond the village, the storm over Shadow's Edge deepened its roar—as if the mountain itself had heard.