CHATER TWO HUNDRED AND EIGHTY INE

The snow was red.

Blood mixed with soot, slushed beneath Yara's boots as she lunged forward, daggers flashing in her fists. Her breath ripped through her chest in ragged gasps, too loud in her ears, too cold in her throat. Every movement was instinct—duck, strike, twist. Again.

Steel screamed. A smuggler rushed her, wild-eyed and filthy. She caught his wrist, drove a blade between his ribs, and shoved him off before his body hit the ground. She didn't even look. There wasn't time.

Don't think. Just move. You lost the right to think.

The ground trembled with the impact of something massive. A roar split the air—deep, furious, unmistakable. Fire carved across the tree line, catching dry branches and curling them into flaming skeletons. Smoke stung her eyes. Embers floated down like falling stars.

The scent hit next—charred pine, scorched flesh, blood. Her arm stung. She was bleeding. Again. She didn't care.