Chapter 19

The capital faded behind them like a dream she had long since outgrown. The carriage creaked steadily along the frostbitten road, flanked by guards whose breath rose in thin white clouds. October sat nestled beneath a thick woolen

cloak, the cold nipping her cheeks, her eyes fixed on the narrowing road ahead.

They had been traveling for only two days, yet it felt like weeks. Each mile peeled away the silk and civility of the South, replacing it with something harsher—something real. The landscape grew steeper, jagged with slate-gray rocks and skeletal trees stripped bare by the wind. Every bend in the path offered a new silence, one that pressed on her chest.

She was no longer Lady October of the southern capital. Not really. Not yet anything else either.

Across from her, Scheuer sat in calm silence, only occasionally glancing out the window or muttering to the lead guard. He had changed in these brief days—less rigid, more rooted. The cold suited him. He looked like he belonged to the land they entered, forged of snow and steel.

“I thought the North would be all white,” October murmured one afternoon, watching a valley of bruised stone and copper grass roll past.

Scheuer glanced at her, the edge of a smile curling. “Wait until the mountains. This is still the South, just colder.”

She nodded, fingers tightening around the pendant at her throat—a small, thin charm carved with her family crest. One of the few things she kept. Hidden in her sleeve, wrapped in silk, was a folded ledger page from her past life. Her numbers. Her proof.

That evening, as dusk settled, the guide called for a stop. They made camp near a bend in the road, where a broken statue of a Northern wolf deity stood half-buried in snow. It watched them with weather-worn eyes.

October took her supper near the fire, listening to the clatter of pots and the low murmurs of soldiers trading stories. The guide—a thickset man named Varn—sat beside Scheuer and ignored her entirely.

“You’ll want to keep close tomorrow,” Varn told Scheuer. “This stretch is bandit-prone. They smell greenblood on the wind.”

Scheuer nodded. October didn’t react, though the term pricked her.

“What’s a greenblood?” she asked calmly, sipping her broth.

Varn snorted. “Southerners. Your kind.”

Scheuer frowned, but October only smiled politely.

“We bleed red just the same,” she said, rising to her feet. “And some of us don’t mind getting a little dirty to prove it.”

The guide grunted, unimpressed.

Later, while everyone else slept, October stood outside her tent and stared at the sky. The stars here burned colder—harder, like fire trapped in ice. She opened her travel journal for the first time and scribbled:

“I expected a road. I found a crucible.”

\---

On the fourth day, it happened.

The sun hadn’t fully risen when the carriage jolted to a sudden stop. Shouts rang out. Hooves clattered. October reached for the dagger hidden in her boot—just in time.

A scream tore through the trees. Bandits, masked and filthy, sprang from the underbrush, blades glinting in the half-light. The guards leapt into formation, but the terrain worked against them. One of the horses reared. October’s maidservant shrieked as she fell from the carriage.

“Stay back!” Scheuer shouted to October, sword drawn as he charged into the fray.

But October didn’t stay back.

She darted from the carriage, heart pounding. Her skirts snagged on brambles, but she ignored them, rushing to the maid. The girl was trembling, unable to move.

“Up,” October hissed, grabbing her arm. “Now. You want to die here?”

The girl scrambled up, and they ducked behind the carriage as metal clashed on metal.

It didn’t last long—the guards were trained, and Scheuer deadly. But it was messy. October watched a bandit crawl, bleeding, into the woods. Watched another gasp out a curse before stilling.

Afterward, as they regrouped and counted heads, Varn grunted at her.

“You didn’t freeze,” he said.

“No,” October answered, breath still ragged. “I don’t have the luxury.”

That night, the wind howled through their camp like the gods had teeth.

\---

The following day brought freezing rain. The trail turned to mud and stone, and the horses struggled. October’s shoes were soaked through by midday. Her hands were numb. No one complained—not aloud.

In a village nestled at the base of a ravine, they sought shelter, but the locals turned them away.

“No room for strangers,” said the elder, eyeing October with suspicion. “Especially not with her colors.”

It was the Windsor blue cloak, trimmed with silver thread. Too fine. Too soft.

October stepped forward before Scheuer could speak.

“If there’s no room,” she said, “then perhaps there's room for trade.”

She removed the gold pin from her collar and placed it on the elder’s table.

“We don’t need rooms. Just food. Salted, dried. Enough to last four days.”

The elder stared at her. So did Scheuer.

“And if that’s not enough,” she added, pulling a slim book from her satchel, “I can show you how to turn a profit from your barley stock before next winter.”

“You some kind of merchant?” the elder asked.

October smiled faintly.

“I’ve closed harder deals than this in four-inch heels.”

The elder laughed once. Then waved them inside.

\---

By the time they left the village, even Varn looked at her differently.

They made camp that night near a broken stream, the water frozen in jagged edges along the banks. October scribbled again in her journal, her fingers shaking with cold:

“Respect isn't given. It's taken—one choice at a time.”

Scheuer approached her as the fire crackled low.

“You surprised me,” he said simply.

“I get that a lot,” October replied, without looking up.

A long pause. Then:

“You’re not what I expected,” Scheuer admitted.

“I’m not what I expected,” she whispered.

He left her alone after that.

\---

At the base of the Northern mountains, they stopped for one final rest before the climb. The land stretched out behind them in a vast canvas of grays and muted golds. Ahead, the peaks rose like sleeping beasts, veined with snow and silence.

October stood outside her tent, cloak wrapped tightly around her. The stars burned even brighter here, unchallenged by city light or southern warmth.

She looked up, drawing in a deep, cold breath. The kind that burned.

“I am no longer prey,” she whispered. “And I am not lost.”