Sleep eluded me that night. I lay on the floor of Laina's small home, stretched out on a pallet of furs that did little to cushion the hard-packed earth beneath. The twin daggers rested beside my head, their presence a constant reminder of what awaited me. Frostbite's blade caught the moonlight filtering through the shutters, casting an eerie blue glow across the ceiling beams.
My bandaged hands throbbed with each heartbeat. The winterroot poultice had done its work, drawing out the cold and preventing frostbite, but the torn skin beneath the wrappings still burned. My ribs ached where I'd hit the ice during our escape from the wolves. Every injury a souvenir of this frozen hell.
I turned on my side, watching Laina's silhouette across the room. She slept sitting up, her back against the wall, bow within arm's reach. Even in rest, she remained vigilant. The daughter of a Knight, raised in a world where letting your guard down meant death.
A soft noise outside pulled me from my thoughts. Not wind—too deliberate, too rhythmic. Footsteps crunching through snow, then stopping. Starting again. Pacing.
I slid my hand to Frostbite's hilt, its leather wrapping cool against my palm. The blade hummed faintly, as if sensing my alertness.
Laina hadn't stirred—either truly asleep or pretending to be. Her silhouette remained motionless against the wall, bow within arm's reach even in slumber.
The pacing continued, hesitant now. Whoever was out there couldn't decide whether to approach or retreat. I eased onto my feet, both daggers now in hand, and crept to the shuttered window. Through a narrow gap in the wooden slats, the moonlight illuminated a familiar figure.
Joran.
His lean frame stalked back and forth in the snow, leaving a trail of footprints that betrayed his indecision. One hand kept straying to the hunting knife at his belt, then falling away. His breath clouded around his face in the frigid air.
I weighed my options. Waking Laina meant questions I wasn't prepared to answer. Ignoring him meant missing potential information. Confronting him alone was risky—but then again, if he'd wanted me dead, he wouldn't be pacing outside like a nervous schoolboy.
I unlocked the door with painful slowness, wincing at every creak of the hinges. The blast of cold air that hit my face stung like needles. Joran spun toward the sound, hand again reaching for his knife.
"Looking for someone?" I kept my voice low, Frostbite visible in my right hand.
He froze, eyes darting from my face to the dagger and back again. "Isaiah."
"Most people knock."
"I wasn't sure of my welcome." His gaze flicked past me, into the darkened house. "Is she awake?"
"No. And I'd like to keep it that way." I stepped outside, pulling the door nearly closed behind me. "What do you want, Joran?"
He exhaled slowly, his breath forming a ghost between us. "You are leaving tomorrow, right?"
I nodded. "And you came here in the middle of the night to tell me what—that I'm making a mistake? That it's suicide?"
"No." Joran's eyes met mine, steady despite the cold. "I came to tell you that you need me."
A harsh laugh escaped my throat before I could stop it. "Last time I needed you, you stood by while your uncle tried to feed me to the wolves."
His jaw tightened. "I've lived in Frostfall my entire life. I know every pass through the Sorrow Range, every trail that won't collapse under your feet. I can track game where others would starve, find shelter where others would freeze."
I studied him, searching for deception. The moonlight cast his face half in shadow, but his eyes remained clear, direct. Either he believed what he was saying, or he was a better liar than most.
"Why help me now? After what happened?"
Joran looked away, jaw working. "What my uncle did was wrong. I should have stopped him."
"But you didn't."
His gaze returned to mine, unflinching. "I didn't. And I'll carry that. But this isn't about making amends. It's about survival."
"Yours or mine?"
"Both." He gestured toward the mountains, their jagged peaks silver in the moonlight. "No one survives the journey to the Temple alone. Not even with Laina guiding you. You need someone who knows the land, the weather patterns. Someone who can read tracks in snow that's been disturbed a hundred different ways."
The cold was seeping through my clothes, my bandaged hands beginning to ache. But something in his desperation kept me rooted to the spot.
"And what do you get out of this arrangement?"
His expression hardened. "My uncle is dying. Without him, I have nothing. No place in Hearthhome, no protection from those who'd gladly see me dead for past associations."
"So I'm your ticket to a fresh start."
"You're my only chance." The raw honesty in his voice was impossible to fake. "And I'm yours."
I weighed his words against the risks. Joran was dangerous—skilled, desperate, with loyalties I couldn't fully trust. But he was also right. The journey ahead would test every limit, and knowledge of the terrain could mean the difference between life and death.
"If I agree," I said slowly, "there are conditions."
Relief flashed across his face, quickly masked. "Name them."
"You follow my lead. Not Laina's, not your own instincts. Mine."
He nodded.
"You share everything you know—about the Reflectors, about the Temple, about anything that might keep us alive."
"Done."
"And you sleep with one eye open," I added, "because the moment I think you're planning to betray us, I'll open your throat without hesitation."
Joran held my gaze, then touched two fingers to his neck in what appeared to be an old gesture of oath-taking. "Fair terms. When do we leave?"
"First light."
"Laina won't be happy."
"Let me worry about Laina."
He stepped back, already fading into the shadows. "First light."
Then he was gone.
When I finally stepped back inside, Laina was sitting upright, bow across her knees.
"Who was that?" Her voice carried no trace of sleep.
I slipped the shard into my pocket. "Our new guide."
"I'm your guide."
"Now we have two."
She rose in a fluid motion, crossing the room to stand before me. "Joran is Torsten's nephew. His loyalty—"
"Isn't to Torsten anymore." I met her gaze steadily. "He knows the Reflectors. Their movements, their patterns. That knowledge keeps us alive."
"And when he slits our throats in our sleep?"
"He won't."
"Such certainty." Her eyes narrowed. "From someone who's known him all of two days."
I moved past her, returning to my pallet. "I don't trust him. But I understand him."
"And that's enough?"
"It has to be." I set the daggers beside my head again, their presence oddly comforting. "We need every advantage we can get."
Laina watched me for a long moment, her expression unreadable in the darkness. Then she returned to her position against the wall, bow still across her knees.
"First sign of betrayal," she said quietly, "and my arrow finds his heart."
"Fair enough."
I stared at the ceiling, listening to the wind outside. Seventeen days remained to reach the Temple, face its Guardian, and claim the Heart of Winter. Now I had two companions – one who'd threatened to kill me and one who'd stood by while another tried.
Some Domain Trial this was turning out to be.
I closed my eyes but didn't sleep. The daggers pulsed beside me, their presence both comfort and warning. Whatever game the Domain was playing, I refused to lose.
Tomorrow we'd start our journey into the frozen heart of Frostfall. And I'd be damned if I'd let anyone – companion or enemy – stand in my way.