Chapter 1 

Cyprian

The cold wants to kill us both.

I know this the way I know my daughter's weight in my arms—intimately, desperately, with the kind of certainty that carves itself into bone. Orielle's small body presses against my chest, wrapped in every scrap of fabric I could salvage, and still she trembles. Still her lips fade from pink to blue to something worse than blue. A color that belongs to corpses.

"Stay with me, little star." My voice tears raw against the wind. "We're almost there."

I don't know if that's true. The blizzard swallows everything—sound, sight, hope. Snow drives horizontal across the Prazh Mountains, each flake a tiny blade cutting exposed skin. My orcish blood runs hot enough to keep me moving, but Orielle is half-human like me, and her human half is dying.

Her heart is freezing. Literally freezing, frost spreading like spiderwebs across her chest beneath the clothes, creeping toward the center with each labored beat.

Three months ago, I didn't know she existed. Three months ago, Maren died giving me a name—Cyprian—and a child I'd never met. A daughter conceived during one reckless night seven years past, when I was someone else. Someone worse.

Now Orielle is all I have. All I am.

And I'm watching her die.

My boots punch through snow to my knees. Each step costs everything. The mountain path vanished an hour ago, or maybe three—time moves strangely in whiteout conditions, in terror. I navigate by instinct, by the faint pressure of altitude against my skull, by the prayer that the purna fortress lies ahead and not behind.

They say the coven takes no visitors. They say purna hate outsiders, especially half-breeds like me. They say a thousand things, most of them warnings.

I don't care.

Orielle whimpers against my neck. The sound barely registers above the storm, but I feel it vibrate through her small ribcage. Feel how weak it's become.

"I've got you." I adjust my grip, tucking her tighter against my chest. My arms burned out miles ago. Now they're just meat and determination. "I've got you, I've got you, I've got you."

The mantra keeps me moving. Keeps my legs pumping through drifts that want to swallow us whole. Keeps my mind from the image of her pale blue eyes closing for the last time, frost claiming the light behind them.

Not today. Not while I still breathe.

The wind shifts—just slightly, just enough. Through the chaos of snow, I glimpse something dark and angular. Stone. Walls. The sharp geometry of civilization carved into mountain rock.

The coven.

Relief nearly drops me. I stumble forward, pushing through the final stretch with reserves I didn't know I possessed. The fortress rises from the storm like a sleeping god, all black stone and ice-rimed towers. Windows glow with pale violet light—purnafire, the color of bruises and power.

I reach the doors and slam my fist against ancient wood. The impact jolts through my shoulder, through my spine. "Please!" The word tears from my throat. "My daughter needs help!"

Nothing. Just wind and snow and the terrible weight in my arms.

I pound again, harder. "She's dying! Please, someone—"

The door swings open.

A woman stands in the threshold, tall and severe in midnight robes. Her skin is the gray-brown of winter bark, her hair black shot through with white streaks that could be age or magic or both. But it's her eyes that stop my breath—violet, the same impossible shade as the purnafire, and cold as the storm at my back.

"You bring death to our door, half-breed." Her voice cuts like glass. Not cruel, just factual. As if she's commenting on the weather.

"I bring my daughter." I shift Orielle so the purna can see her face, can see the frost spreading underneath her jaw like poisoned lace. "She has the frozen heart curse. I was told—" My voice cracks. "I was told you might save her."

The purna's expression doesn't change. She studies Orielle with the detached interest of a scholar examining an insect. "The curse spreads quickly now. It has progressed far."

"I know." My arms shake. Everything shakes. "That's why I'm here. Why I climbed through this godsforsaken storm. Please. I'll do anything."

"Anything." The purna repeats the word like she's tasting it, testing its weight. "Do you understand what 'anything' means in a place like this?"

I meet her eyes and hold them. "I understand I'll die before I let her die. Everything else is negotiable."

The wind howls behind me. Snow finds its way past my body, swirling into the warm interior. Orielle's breathing rattles against my chest—too shallow, too slow.

Then the purna steps aside.

"Bring her."

I don't wait for her to reconsider. I push through the doorway into blessed warmth, into air that doesn't flay skin from bone. The entrance hall stretches before me, all dark stone and flickering violet torches. Other figures move in the shadows—more purna, their eyes catching the light like animals.

They watch us. All of them. Silent and judging.

The first purna closes the door, cutting off the storm's roar. In the sudden quiet, I hear my own ragged breathing. Hear Orielle's shallow gasps.

"This way." The purna walks deeper into the fortress without looking back, clearly expecting me to follow.

I do. What choice do I have?

We pass through corridors that twist and turn, descending into the mountain's heart. The walls pulse with barely visible runes, magic inscribed directly into stone. The air tastes of frost and something else—something old and vast and not quite human.

Finally, we emerge into a circular chamber. A ritual space, I realize. Symbols cover every surface, spiraling from floor to ceiling in patterns that hurt to look at directly. At the center sits a raised stone platform, and the purna gestures toward it.

"Place her there."

My arms don't want to release Orielle. Don't want to relinquish the weight that's become my only anchor. But I lower her onto the cold stone as gently as I can, unwrapping layers of fabric to expose the curse's spread.

The frost has claimed half her chest now. It glitters in the purnafire light, beautiful and horrible, ice crystals forming intricate patterns across green skin. Her small tusks—inherited from my orcish heritage—peek from her slack mouth as her head lolls to one side.

The purna kneels beside her, pressing two fingers to Orielle's throat. Checking for a pulse I know is barely there.

"She lives," the purna announces. "For now."

"Can you save her?" The question comes out broken. "Can you—"

"Perhaps." She rises, those deep eyes fixed on me with uncomfortable intensity. "But understand this, half-breed: nothing in this coven is free. Your payment will become clear to both of us in time."

"I don't care about payment."

"Perhaps now.." She tilts her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle she's deciding whether to solve. "What is your name?"

"Cyprian."

"I am Cressa. Matriarch of this coven." She turns back to Orielle, her expression unreadable. "For now, I can save your daughter's life. Beyond that.”

I step closer to the platform, to Orielle's small, frost-covered form. "Just save her now.  The rest... we'll figure out the rest."

Cressa's lips curve in something that might be a smile or a warning. "Yes. We will."

She begins to chant—low, rhythmic words in a language that predates common tongue. Other purna file into the chamber, taking positions around the circle. Their voices join hers, layering harmonies that raise every hair on my body.

Magic floods the space. Real, tangible, heavy as water. It presses against my skin, my lungs, my skull.

And in the center of it all, my daughter lies dying while I watch and pray to any god who'll listen.

The Guide, goddess of death and travel, if you hear me—don't take her yet. Give me time. Give me a chance.

Let me be the father I never was.