The North Road

(Paige’s POV)

Dawn breaks dull and lifeless across the edge of the sky as we meet in the yard. Under boots, the fallen snow packs tight, frozen solid after last night’s blow. Nobody announces anything. Not even a single trumpet sounds. Only two wagons wait - ours, plus another stacked with what little we carry - and ten soldiers standing ready, Alex at their front. Being cast out feels less like an event, more like something done before sunrise without comment.

The blue wool dress from the inn still hangs on my body. Now it holds weight, like something meant to shield. Over it goes a thick cloak, lined with fur, one that Noah pulled out of some forgotten corner - its scent carries cedar, mixed with his skin. He stands wrapped in dark wool and leather, built for cold I have yet to feel. A sword rests against his side. His voice stays low as he speaks to the steward, assigning tasks, drawing boundaries, setting things in motion before we vanish. The estate will wait. For how long, nobody says.

It's clear he carries himself like the Duke of Ashes should. Yet the moment our gazes meet through the icy garden, something glowing shifts beneath the gray.

He moves close. “You set?”.

Not yet. This place is all I have ever called home, staying feels safer than vanishing into ice and silence. Still, choosing him doesn’t scare me. “Yes.”

A step up into the carriage - this one wider, built tougher for rougher ground. Thick furs line the inside, heat coming off a small metal pan full of red embers. Cozy enough, yet still just walls on wheels. Fancy, yes, though really nothing more than a gilded cart heading somewhere beyond borders.

The iron groans wide. Forward we jerk, uneven at first. Twisting around in the seat, I stare back through the pane - the Wingknight mansion sinks into morning light, smaller now. Heavy shadows cling to its edges, built on whispers, control, one moment under an oak tree. Breathing feels harder.

A warmth spreads over my fingers, still clutching the seat's edge. Glancing behind, I find Noah looking straight at me. His face shows nothing I can name.

“Mistakes?” he says. Not harsh, not soft - yet something sharp lives behind his stare.

Down there, my hand rests in his - small, white, thin. His is wide, marked by old wounds, holding on tight. "No regrets," I tell him, truth in every word. Just shadows linger after."

He nods once, as if he understands perfectly. He probably does. “The North has its own ghosts. But they’re honest ones. Cold and clean.”

Fingers locked, he stays close. Still holding on, his grip won’t loosen. Not once does he drop it. Keeps me there, hand firmly in his.

Fog hangs low on the morning we start out. Roads we once knew fade behind us, replaced by wooded slopes that climb without warning. Breath comes quicker here, as if the sky presses down less hard. Horses stay near, riders watching every shadow move. This stretch answers to no crown directly, nor does it obey the dukes up north - just silence, and rules made fresh each mile.

Fog gathers on the glass where Noah's gaze lingers, lost inside moves ahead, weighing dangers before they arrive. Silence between us feels right. That sharp edge in his thoughts - always measuring, always ready - is something I don’t reach. Burden of leading shows there, quiet but deep.

When twilight fades into deep purple sky full of stars, our group reaches a walled rest point. The building looks harsh, made of heavy stone squares, yet inside there is warmth, safety. Alex handles every detail without being asked. Up a tight flight of steps, they assign us one small room. Bare walls, just a bed, a basin for water, flames leaping in the hearth.

Here, closeness isn’t something snatched in quiet moments - it settles like dust after a long journey. One glance, then another, and the act begins to fade. Roads stretch ahead, just us inside this car, no audience left. Distance strips things down, layer by layer, until there’s nothing to hide behind.

Water drips off my skin as I rinse away the trail's grime. Turning, I find Noah near the flames, outer clothes left behind. Only trousers and a loose shirt cover him now, thread stretched tight over broad shoulders. Fire dances as he moves, light clinging to muscle and bone. Gold flickers, shadows shift, shaping his form in uneven glow. Solid. Real. A slow breath catches in my chest. Heat rises without warning, unasked, deep in my core.

Firelight flickers in his eyes when he looks up. A grin creeps across his face, quiet, certain. The way he watches me - sharp, unbothered - it feels dangerous. Smiles like that ought to come with warnings.

A shadow passes over his face as he speaks. His words come out slow, like thunder just before rain.

I lift my chin, refusing to be flustered. “Just taking inventory again. My assets seem to have survived the first day’s travel.”

A low laugh rumbles out, filling the tight space with warmth. Close now, he pauses where my comfort zone ends. His presence pushes against me like pressure before rain. Cold lingers on his skin, mixed with worn leather and something deeper - warm clove, maybe amber. That sharp familiar mix cuts through everything else.

“Your assets are currently aching from twelve hours in a saddle,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my mouth. “But they’re at your disposal, nonetheless.”

Something catches in my chest. Unfamiliar ground here. A loose, playful boldness I’ve never seen before. All barriers gone now.

My hand moves to his chest, fingers spreading just above where his heart pounds beneath skin. The rhythm under my palm stays firm, unshaken. "Rest might be what my holdings need," I tell him, though the words come out quieter than intended.

A warm pressure rises under my fingers as his palm meets mine. His voice follows close behind, soft but sure - doing exactly what I asked

Alex brings us stew and bread, so we eat without fuss. Words come slow. Tiredness sits thick on our shoulders like wet wool. Still, quiet feels right here. When you’ve walked enough together, silence fits just fine.

Each night, getting ready to rest brings that quiet moment once more. A single bed waits, its presence speaking without words.

Fog curls around the window as Noah kills the flame, steps toward the bed without unbuttoning a thing. His clothes stay on while he slips under, quiet like that. One hand lifts the fur just enough to show she can join him.

Falling into place next to him, I’m bare beneath a thin shirt. Tight quarters on the mattress leave no space between us. From shoulders down to legs, we touch without choice. Warmth hits fast, real in a way that fills every thought.

Facing me now, he rests his head on one arm. Firelight dims his eyes into deep stills. Seriousness shapes every line of his face.

“This will not be an easy life, Paige,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “The North… it’s not a softer exile. It’s a harder reality. The people are proud, poor, and have been neglected for generations. They will not welcome southern interlopers. The land itself is a challenge. It’s beautiful, but it will try to break you.”

His face tells me everything. Not fear, just honesty. This is real. One moment left to decide.

“I’m not looking for easy,” I say softly. “I’m looking for real. With you.”

Breathing out, he lets go - each muscle softens. That weight, finally gone. His mouth meets mine, soft at first, then deeper, like time stops there. Chin resting above my forehead now. Arms locked tight, pulling me close, as though everything steady depends on this hold.

A whisper brushes through the strands of my hair. Something true begins there, he says so softly it almost fades.

Breathing slows as his pulse fills my ears, a rhythm paired with the fire’s soft snap. This stranger’s hold feels like returning - though walls are unfamiliar, though names still hang unlearned. Belonging settles deep, quiet, without reason.

---

A shift takes place when the second morning comes. Trees grow sparse, giving way to wide open moors where heather wears a dull brown cloak. Far off, peaks rise sharply - purple shapes like broken edges cutting into clouds. This air carries sound differently now, filled with a raw cry that echoes without reason.

Around noon we spot a small cluster of stone huts ahead - smoke drifting slow from crooked chimneys, built into the hillside like moss finds cracks in cliffs. From doorways, villagers step out, standing still as we roll past. Faces carved by wind and time, dressed in layers stitched with mismatched cloth. Not wonder in their gaze, but something harder - distrust, maybe anger. When they notice the duke's symbol painted on the coach, their stares drop. Silence returns once we're gone.

“They see the crown’s tax collector,” Noah says quietly, following my gaze. “Or another absentee lord who will demand their grain and give them nothing but frostbite in return.”

“What will we give them?” I ask.

His gaze meets mine, a quick flash of shock, then maybe respect. Not quite words, but close. "An honest shot," he adds. Safety. A noble who stays where his people are. That counts."

Frosted peaks appear by morning three. A thin trail cuts along cliff edges where drops fall sharp to roaring streams. Wings of eagles tilt wide above, riding winds that never warm. Breathing here feels like swallowing glass. Yet every breath tastes pure - stripped bare, without mask or weight.

Noah points out landmarks with a quiet, proprietary knowledge. “That peak is called the Widow’s Tooth. The pass ahead is the Devil’s Staircase. We’ll be at Blackstone Keep by nightfall.”

A stone fortress rose on the hill - this place is ours now. Blackstone Keep they call it. Not a gentle name, more like a test waiting to begin.

The light fades slowly, slipping past the tallest mountains. Around the last curve up ahead, the path turns sharply west.

Here it stands.

Not some elegant tower with delicate peaks. A chunk of rough rock driven hard into the hillside. Heavy. Built to last. Sharp towers poke up like broken teeth. Tough to ignore. Over there, a thin bridge stretches across a roaring chasm toward an enormous door. Some windows shine faintly, specks of light holding back night's spread.

It looks like the end of the world.

Fear drags me down - yet calm follows, uninvited. Not luxury here, just strength. Walls rise like resolve. Ground holds firm.

Beneath creaking wheels, the carriage lurches forward over stone slats. A metallic groan splits the air as the gate lifts high above us. Into dim space we go, surrounded by sheer rock faces that swallow the fading light whole.

Frost hits hard the moment the door swings wide. My lungs freeze as icy air rushes in. He steps onto the ground before looking back. A silent reach follows - his palm waiting.

Footsteps break the quiet, my soles grinding across stone and frozen grit. Above, the fortress rises like something that remembers too much. Shapes gather near the entrance - someone robed, others armored in pelts along the edges of their coats. Their eyes fix on us, not quite sure what we mean, but already wary. Silence stretches, filled only by wind slipping through cracks in the walls.

This moment changes everything. Turning around isn’t an option now.

His fingers squeeze my palm harder. Not a glance toward the castle walls or those standing near. Just me, only me in his sight. There it is again - that fire I carry deep too. Hardened. Silent. Unwilling to bend.

Home at last, Paige,” he says, calm and even. The words hang without rush.

Facing what comes next, we stand side by side.

---

One Thousand Six Hundred Fifty Chapters