Two days after Finch was caught in the north lane, winter finally stopped pretending.
Snow came in from the higher ridge with steadier intent this time, not a teasing scatter that melted on contact, but a slow, persistent fall that whitened the outer paths, softened rooflines, and changed the sound of the pack house underfoot. The world did not vanish into storm yet, though Rowan would probably have preferred that. It only narrowed. Distance looked shorter than it was. Scent sat differently in the air. Every cart track and every patrol route mattered more.
Cassian used the change before Rowan could.
