Chapter Twenty-Eight
Eryon
Ido not look back. I cannot. If I do, I will go to her. And if I go to her, I will never let her go.
I take the punishing route home—the path that demands blood. Snowdrifts claw at my legs and sharp rocks pierce even the thickness of my skin. The wind howls through the valley like a living thing, but I do not feel any of it. I only feel the absence of her.
It is an emptiness I have known before. One carved into the foundation of my soul long ago, a chasm of grief that time never completely filled. I thought I had made peace with it. Thought I had accepted my fate.
And then she came—my Winter Star.
The one I should not have touched, should not have wanted. Yet fate had thrust her into my arms, again and again. And I am not as strong as I thought I was for all of these centuries. Not strong enough to keep her from slipping through my fingers like melting snow, even as I tried to hold on.
As I climb, a squall kicks up. Ice crusts the edges of my fur, driven against my skin in sharp, stinging waves. I could increase my temperature or lengthen my fur to protect myself, but I don’t bother. I welcome the pain. It keeps me from thinking. From feeling.
The wind screams in my ears like my bleeding heart as I make the steep ascent. I push myself until my muscles ache, my breath a ragged thing torn from my chest. Perhaps I will die after all. Perhaps the mountain will finally take me.
But it does not.
I pass between the sentinel stones, their jagged peaks towering above me like ancient guardians. I trail my fingers along their rough surface, as I have for centuries, but this time—this time, they feel like grave markers.
I press forward through the whispering gorge, where the wind wails so loud it drowns the sound of my own thoughts. Yet beneath the mountain’s agony, I hear something else. The phantom echo of her voice.
“You don’t understand—I need this plant. I’m not just here for myself, for research. This isn’t about taking or destroying—it’s about survival.”
I clench my jaw, my breath coming in ragged bursts. She was not the first to say such things to me. The man that came before also spoke of healing, of discovery, of a future where knowledge could change lives. He, too, swore that he would only take what was needed.
And then he took everything. The plants. The chance to save my snowling. The last light in my mate’s eyes.
I stagger. Just for a breath, just for a single misstep, but it is enough.
Rocks cascade over the edge of the narrow path where my foot is poised.
I am unraveling, and I welcome it. It’s what I deserve for failing everyone I have ever loved.
One strong gust, a fraction of a shift in my balance, and I will fall.
The squall vanishes as suddenly as it started, and I sigh in acknowledgement.
The mountain is not done with me yet. I force my leaden feet to continue on until I reach the frozen waterfall that marks the threshold of my solitude.
It looms before me, caught in eternal stillness, its surface so smooth and clear that my own reflection stares back at me.
A beast looks out from the ice.
Snow clings to the thick white of my fur. My silver eyes are hollow, empty pools in the face of a creature who no longer knows himself. I have never looked more like a monster. I bare my teeth as if to snarl at my own reflection. But there is no one to witness my rage. No one to hear my grief.
I am alone.
A single tear falls from the eye of the beast who stares back at me. I wrench my gaze away from the pathetic creature and continue toward the cave, its darkness yawning open to swallow me whole. Inside, silence presses in, thick and suffocating. My home, once a sanctuary, now feels like a grave.
The fire is still warm from the night before. The furs on the bed still hold the ghost of her body, her shape pressed into the soft pelts. Her scent remains, winding through the air like a spirit refusing to leave.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, curling my hands into fists against my thighs to keep from gathering the pelts into my arms, desperate to be closer to where she had been, where the traces of her still linger.
I can still feel her here—the way she fit against me, the way her fingers traced over my skin as though I were something sacred. The way she looked at me—not with the fear of a monster, nor the reverence of a guardian, but with recognition. Of something more. Someone more.
She saw me.
A shuddering breath rips from my lungs, and I press my hands to my face. For an ancient and wise guardian, I have been a fool. I should not have let her touch me. I should not have let her in. She was never meant to stay.
I knew this, even as I let myself believe otherwise. Even as I let my hands roam her skin, as I whispered her name into the hollow of her throat, as I claimed her like she was mine.
But she was never mine.
I lurch to my feet, shoving the thought away. I move through the caverns and tunnels, the places that once felt like shelter. Now, they are only prison walls.
The darkness presses in, but my hands know the way. My fingers skim the rough stone, seeking something I should not reach for, but I do. The place where I traced the ochre lines of my past. My grief, carved into stone.
I let my forehead rest against the wall, the cool rock grounding me even as my thoughts spiral. I have carried this loss for decades. It should not feel new. It should not hurt.
And yet, it does. Because for a moment, I let myself believe I could have it again. I let myself believe in her. In us.
I turn from the paintings, my claws pressing into my palms as I clench my fists, grounding myself in the pain. The past does not matter. My duty has not changed. I am the guardian of these mountains. The keeper of the balance. I exist to protect, not to want.
I tell myself this, over and over, as I have for centuries. But as I step outside once more, the wind biting at my skin, I find myself looking toward the village. Toward her.
The sky has cleared, the storm has passed. And yet, the path before me is no clearer than the day I lost everything. Because no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise—
I am not sure I can survive losing her, too.