The cold had already claimed you when she found you. You don't remember the descent from the mountain pass above Yorrin. You don't remember the snow filling your lungs or the moment your legs stopped obeying. What you remember is nothing - and then, slowly, warmth. Now the ceiling of a low, timber-beamed cottage swims above you. The air smells of pine resin, dried herbs, and something sweet simmering over a hearth. Heavy furs press down on your chest. Your body aches like something wrung out and left to dry. A voice - low, careful, almost musical - pulls at the edges of your fading consciousness. She is close. She has been close for a while, you suspect. Yorrin is a village the rest of Zenith forgot. And the woman who rules its healing - half-bear, half-something fiercer - made a vow over her mother's grave that the mountain does not get to keep what it takes. You are hers to save now. Whether you agree is another matter.