Chapter 4 – The Winter Gate

Snow was already falling when they rode into the village. Thick, heavy flakes that clung to cloaks and lashes and muffled the world into silence.

Wethermark wasn't on any map Elenya had ever studied. A scattering of stone homes, a crooked watchtower long since fallen, and a single road so narrow their horses had to ride single file. There were no walls. No guards. Just smoke rising from low chimneys and the faint scent of coal and cured meat.

They passed no signs, but someone had scratched a crude symbol into a tree near the edge of the woods — a northern mark, signaling the territory belonged to someone powerful enough not to name.

Lira leaned toward her in the saddle. "Don't speak unless you have to. Your voice gives you away."

Elenya nodded. She understood.

They spoke with the cadence of the capital — polished, clipped, direct. In the South, it signaled class. Here, it was a red flag. People with voices like theirs brought taxes, conscription, or swords.

They passed a butcher who paused mid-swing, bloodied cleaver in hand. A group of boys hauling firewood went still as they rode by, watching with wide, winter-bitten eyes.

No one greeted them.

No one waved.

A single inn stood near the center of the village, huddled between a blacksmith's forge and a shuttered tannery. Its wooden sign swung in the wind: The Winter Gate.

A stablehand — young, sullen — stepped out from the side. "Looking for shelter?" he asked, though his tone said I hope you're not.

"One night," Lira said, keeping her voice low and plain.

The boy gestured toward the stalls. "Feed's inside. Don't touch the bay gelding. He kicks."

Inside, the inn was warmer but no more welcoming. Four locals sat at a corner table, thick mugs in hand, eyes on their own business. Or pretending to be. The hearth crackled with pinewood. The walls smelled of smoke and something faintly medicinal — pine tar, maybe. Or sap.

The innkeeper was a weathered woman with a long braid and sharp eyes. She looked them over from behind the counter, lips pressed into a line.

"We pay in coin," Lira said before the woman could speak. "Silver."

The woman held out a hand without a word. Lira placed two coins in it.

"Upstairs. Left hallway. Second door. Firewood's stacked inside. Don't bother the kitchen staff."

Elenya nodded once. "Thank you."

Their footsteps creaked up the stairs like a warning bell. The room was small, cold, and smelled faintly of moss and soot — but it had a locking door and a bed with two thick quilts. That was enough.

---

They didn't speak until the bolt was drawn behind them.

Then Lira said quietly, "They don't like us."

Elenya sat on the edge of the bed, peeling off her gloves. "They don't even know us."

"That's why they don't like us."

She crossed to the window, lifting the frost-lined curtain just enough to peek outside. The village looked as quiet as it had when they entered. But it was watching. She could feel it.

"They heard how we speak," Lira said. "We could've worn rags and they still would've known. South-born. High-trained. Educated. Which, around here, might as well mean dangerous."

Elenya watched a man lead a mule past the inn. The man glanced at the window. She let the curtain drop.

"Should we leave tonight?" she asked.

"No. That'd look worse. We stay. Eat. Sleep. Leave at first light like any tired traveler."

Elenya pulled off her cloak and unbraided her hair. "Do you think any of them guessed?"

"No. But they'll start to wonder." Lira began unpacking their gear — a dry loaf of bread, hard cheese, a flask of snowmelt. "We don't look like nobles. But we don't look like poor girls either. The best cover we've got is acting like we're just rich enough to be stupid, not dangerous."

Elenya nodded and took the cheese.

---

Downstairs, the inn had grown quieter. The locals were still there — the same four — but now they were whispering. Not staring, but not forgetting either.

Elenya and Lira ate near the fire. The soup was watery but warm, and the bread was better than it looked.

Halfway through the meal, a boy entered — no more than ten — carrying a bucket of kindling. He froze when he saw them. Elenya smiled softly.

The boy bolted.

Lira didn't comment. She just passed Elenya a mug of boiled pine tea.

"Kael Dravon's people live in places like this," she said, low. "Hard places. Unmarked. Too cold and too far for the crown to care about. That's why they're loyal to him."

"Because he sees them?"

"Because he leaves them alone."

Elenya stared into her mug. "Do you think he'll see me?"

Lira's eyes flicked up. "Not like they see you here. He won't care about your voice or how you walk."

"Then what will he care about?"

"Why you came."

Elenya didn't speak again until they were back upstairs.

---

That night, Elenya lay awake listening to the wind. It howled like something wild just outside the glass. Snow piled against the windowsill. The fire had gone out, but she hadn't noticed.

Lira was already asleep, one knife under the pillow, another by the door.

Elenya stared at the ceiling and whispered into the dark, "You don't know I'm coming. But you will."

By the time they reached the village, snow had turned to fine sleet, clinging to their cloaks and lashes. Wethermark was little more than a handful of stone houses pressed against the woods. Thin trails of smoke rose from crooked chimneys. A few goats picked through hay near a sagging fence. Everything smelled of pine, wet wool, and coal.

Elenya straightened in the saddle as eyes turned their way. A butcher paused mid-cut. A woman carrying water set her bucket down slowly. Children stood still, wide-eyed.

Lira leaned close. "Keep your hood low. Let them think we're just passing through."

They rode at a walk, giving the villagers time to study them. The stares weren't hostile — just measuring. Strangers in these parts were rare, and those who came with southern accents usually brought unwanted things: taxes, orders, or war.

At first, whispers trailed behind them. A few faces lingered at windows. But when they saw no banners, no weapons beyond knives, no soldiers at their backs, the tension eased. The stares turned away. A man spat in the snow and went back to mending his fence. A child threw a stick for a shaggy dog.

The moment passed.

"They've decided we're harmless," Lira murmured.

"For now," Elenya said.

---

The inn stood at the center of the village, a squat building with a faded sign swinging above its door: The Winter Gate. A stablehand appeared from the side, a boy barely fourteen, cheeks raw from cold.

"Shelter?" he asked, wiping his hands on a rag.

"One night," Lira said, her tone calm and even. "Two horses."

He shrugged. "Stalls are open. Hay's dry." He didn't ask more questions and didn't look twice at them.

Inside, the warmth smelled of smoke and pine. A small fire crackled in the hearth, filling the room with dim light. Four locals sat hunched over mugs at a corner table, speaking in low voices. None looked up.

The innkeeper, a sturdy woman with weathered hands, didn't ask where they came from. She simply eyed them, took Lira's silver coin, and said, "Upstairs. Left hall. Second door. Firewood's stacked."

No welcome. No suspicion. Just business.

Elenya caught Lira's eye. The maid gave a barely perceptible nod. They weren't being treated like threats.

That was good.

---

Their room was small but warm, the fire already laid in the hearth. Elenya sat by the window, watching snow drift across the rooftops while Lira unpacked.

"They've lost interest," Lira said. "They think we're nobody worth noticing."

Elenya allowed herself a slow breath. "Good. Let's keep it that way."

"They'll forget us by morning."

Elenya stared out the window at the white-blanketed village. For a moment, it almost felt safe.

Almost.

---

Later, they ate quietly in the common room. The soup was thin but hot, the bread dense with oats, the tea sharp with pine. The locals barely looked their way now. Their voices rose again, talking of timber prices, wolf tracks, and the coming snow.

For once, they were simply two travelers in a cold land.

No whispers. No probing questions.

The tension that had followed them since leaving the palace finally loosened, if only a little.

---

Upstairs, with the door bolted, Lira sat sharpening her knife. "We leave at first light. No reason to linger."

Elenya nodded. "They don't care who we are."

"Which means we did it right," Lira said. "Stay small. Stay quiet. Keep moving."

Elenya leaned back against the wall, pulling the blanket over her shoulders. For the first time since their escape, her muscles relaxed.

The village would remember them as passing shadows, nothing more.

Tomorrow, they would ride on. Deeper into the land that belonged to the man she sought.

The man who, soon, would know her name.