Chapter 20

The moment the carriage rolled through the gates of the Northern border town, October felt it. Not the cold—it had long since seeped through the carriage’s wooden frame and into her bones. This was something deeper. Heavier. A silence that seemed to settle beneath the snow, crouching in wait like a predator. The wind

didn’t whistle here; it whispered secrets, hushed warnings that wrapped around the eaves of buildings and ducked under doorframes.

She leaned against the window, chin resting on her gloved hands, the glass fogging faintly with her breath. The town was a portrait in monochrome: slate-gray roofs half-buried in snow, dark stone buildings with narrow windows, the timber of their frames nearly black against the frost. They weren’t built for beauty. They were built to endure.

People moved quickly through the streets, thick furs swaddling them until they looked like hunched bears. No one lingered. No one smiled. Not a single face turned toward the carriage with interest—only suspicion, like they were watching for an infection they hoped hadn’t caught.

This wasn’t the court, where greetings flowed like wine and masks were worn over truth. This was a place where a mask might get you eaten.

The carriage shuddered to a halt in the town square. Scheuer was out the door first, her boots crunching in snow. She opened October’s side with a practiced hand and offered her gloved palm.

October took it, descending carefully. The cold slapped her instantly, a forceful hand across the face. Her fur-lined cloak billowed behind her like a noblewoman’s banner—until it snagged embarrassingly on the carriage latch.

“Elegant,” Scheuer muttered dryly, her breath misting in the air as she unhooked the fabric.

“I meant that,” October replied with a sniff, trying to tug the cloak back around her shoulders with dignity. “Northern tradition, yes?”

“No.”

The square was alive with movement despite the snow. Merchants huddled behind stalls selling heavy meats, salt-preserved fish, iron tools, and coarse woven garments. No bright silks or gilded fans. No idle laughter or the chirping of gossip. The Northern capital might be grander, but this town was bone-deep real—blunt and unyielding.

As they walked toward the inn, the people stared. Not out of curiosity. Not even out of malice. But out of wariness. Her Southern features—softer, more delicately shaped—marked her immediately. Her boots were polished. Her perfume was subtle but unmistakable. Everything about her screamed outsider. Worse: soft.

Inside the inn, the cold relented. Warmth rolled out from a wide hearth, logs spitting flames up into a dark stone chimney. Wooden beams lined the ceiling, their grain darkened with age and soot. A few tables were occupied by soldiers and traders. Their conversation didn’t fade so much as it was snuffed out the moment she stepped inside.

One man raised an eyebrow, the scar at the corner of his eye twitching slightly. Another grunted and turned his back. A pair of women whispered something behind their hands. The innkeeper—a squat man with pale hair and heavy-lidded eyes—stared for a long moment before flicking his gaze to Scheuer.

“She with you?” he asked, his tone more of a challenge than a question.

Scheuer didn’t flinch. “She’s my sister. She’ll be staying a few days.”

The innkeeper didn’t smile. “Hope she likes wolves.”

October stepped forward, her grin wide and bright. “Oh, I’ve dealt with worse. I once sat beside Lady Felmere during tea, and she spoke in a full loop about her cat’s digestion.”

Silence.

No one laughed. A spoon scraped against a bowl somewhere in the back. Someone cleared their throat.

“Well,” she muttered under her breath, “I thought that was funny.”

The rooms were upstairs—bare as monks’ quarters. A single bed covered in furs, a wash basin half-frozen, and a wooden chair that looked like it had been carved in a hurry by someone angry. The mattress was harder than any diplomatic insult, and the window offered only a view of gray sky and snow-drifted rooftops.

October unpacked in silence. She laid her travel journal carefully on the side table, smoothing its worn leather cover. Then, from the bottom of her satchel, she drew out a small carved pendant—worn and misshapen. She had found it weeks ago buried in the corner of Scheuer’s drawer, a forgotten trinket from childhood. October had taken it without asking. Now it sat beside her journal like a talisman. She didn’t know why she needed it. She just did.

By nightfall, they were summoned—or invited, depending on how generous one’s definition was—to a communal meal in the main hall. The long tables were already full of locals, bowls of thick stew steaming in front of them. There were no silver utensils, no carved napkin rings. Everything was wooden, practical, and meant to last.

October followed Scheuer in, shoulders straight, chin high. She held her posture like a duchess and tried to move with quiet confidence. She ignored the stares, the turned heads, the way spoons hovered midair as people caught sight of her.

Then she made her first mistake.

At the head of the main table stood a tall woman clad in layers of dark wool. Her hair was braided into a crown, her eyes flint-sharp. She wore no jewelry, but there was nobility in her stance, authority in the angle of her jaw.

A noble, clearly.

October smiled and offered her best deep Southern curtsy—back low, arms out, graceful as a falling petal.

The reaction was instant.

Someone choked on their drink. A man muttered, “By the mountain’s teeth...” A spoon clattered to the ground.

Scheuer stiffened beside her. “That’s not how they greet each other here,” she hissed, too late.

The tall woman looked down at October, unimpressed. “Southern silk tears easily in Northern frost.”

October’s cheeks burned. She slowly straightened, meeting the woman’s gaze head-on. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not made of silk.”

A flicker of something passed through the woman’s eyes. Amusement, perhaps. Or surprise. But she said nothing more and turned away.

Dinner was quiet. October said little, choosing instead to study the others: how they held their spoons, how they sat, how they spoke. The Northerners ate fast but efficiently, barely wasting words. When someone laughed, it was short and sharp, like a bark. No one offered her bread. She didn’t ask.

Later, she sat outside the inn on a narrow bench, her fingers curled inside her sleeves. The stars above the snow-blanketed town were diamond-bright, shimmering through a sky so clear it almost hurt to look at. Her journal lay open in her lap, half a sentence trailing off like a breath.

“You’re not going to survive here if you keep bowing like that,” Scheuer said, emerging from the shadows. Her arms were crossed, posture casual—but her eyes were watchful.

“I figured,” October said with a sigh. “I tried to blend in. I even wore less perfume today.”

Scheuer sniffed. “You still smell like roses dipped in cinnamon.”

“I was going for intimidation.”

Scheuer’s lips twitched. Almost a smile. Almost.

October turned to her fully now, face solemn. “Teach me. Please. I want to walk like a Northerner. Speak like one. I won’t survive on charm alone, and I won’t go back to being... useless.”

Scheuer looked at her for a long time, snowflakes catching in her lashes. Then she extended a hand.

“It’ll hurt,” she warned. “The learning. The changing.”

“I’m not here to be coddled.”

Scheuer pulled her to her feet. “First lesson,” she said. “Don’t flinch when they look at you like prey. The wolves always test the weak ones first.”

October nodded, jaw set.

As they turned to go inside, she caught a glimpse of a servant boy—barely thirteen—quietly adding logs to her fireplace. He glanced at her and, for a heartbeat, smiled.

Not everyone here was ice.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. The cold pressed in like a living thing. She rose from bed, wrapped her cloak tight, and stepped outside. The square was silent under a dusting of fresh snow. No guards, no candles—just moonlight and frost.

She dropped to her knees, coat pooling around her, and began to practice the Northern bow.

Knees bent. Back straight. Eyes forward.

Not delicate. Not graceful. Grounded.

“You’re still doing it wrong,” came a voice from the shadows.

She didn’t startle. “Then show me.”

And she did.

In the moonlit silence of a frozen world, under stars bright enough to burn, October began to learn how to survive.