The journey began before first light.
Rose stood cloaked in a deep blue with silver embroidery of snowflakes scattered everywhere, her hair braided and pinned back beneath a fur-lined hood. Her silence had become a presence all its own an invisible thread between her and Ivar, unspoken but not unfelt.
He had not asked her to stay behind.
And she had not asked where they were going.
The horses moved quietly beneath them, hooves muffled on the mossy trail. The road wound upward through ever-thickening trees, into the spine of the mountains, where no village roads reached and the air turned thin with forgotten names.
Fog wove low over the ground, shifting like breath, like memory. The path narrowed with every hour, as though the mountain tested each step they took.
Ivar rode ahead, his shoulders taut, his eyes fixed ahead. He hadn't spoken much since the cost was taken. Guilt clung to him like a shadow.
But Rose watched him with a steadiness he did not yet understand. She had chosen him and she did not regret it.
The wind carried whispers in her ears now of fragments of the old tongue from the spell, fading like smoke. She could still feel the beat of magic in her blood, slow but awakening.
They paused at a clearing where a black road cut across the trail.
Ivar dismounted. "We walk from here," he said, voice low. "No one who rides can cross."
Rose slid from her horse. The air smelled of pine, and stone and something like the air before a storm.
He led her to a stone outcrop where a narrow path cut up into the cliffs. It was almost invisible, overgrown with ivy and time.
The snow fell in quiet sheets as they climbed higher into the mountains.
Rose pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, the dark wool already powdered with white. Her hood framed her face in a halo of fur, but her cheeks were flushed pink with cold. She didn't mind it.
The cold air tasted clean like pine, like cedar, which felt older than time.
They had left the forest behind hours ago. Now, only the open stretch of highland paths wound before them, veined with frozen streams and soft drifts of snow. The world had narrowed to white and silver, to wind-carved peaks and clouds brushing the tips of distant cliffs.
And yet they still climbed.
Ivar walked ahead, steady as ever. His cloak billowed behind him like a banner, black against the white.
Rose watched his silhouette, a dark mark in the light, and felt a strange peace settle into her bones.
There was silence, but not emptiness. The snow muffled sound, but in that hush, she began to sense things she never had before.
The creak of ice in the trees. The sigh of wind through mountain. Her own heartbeat, steady now, no longer chased by fear.
They passed frozen waterfalls, their cascades captured in mid-motion, glimmering like glass. Birds circled high above, winging across the endless sky. Below, vast valleys yawned open, soft with snow and stitched with silver rivers that reflected the pale light like threads of spun moon.
At one point, Ivar paused at a rise, holding her hand so they could walk together.
From the ridge, she could see the horizon stretching forever, a sea of mountains and mist.
She reached out and touched his hand, not needing words.
He looked down at her, eyes gentler now, and simply nodded.
They walked side by side, boots crunching lightly in the snow, leaving behind a trail that the wind tried to erase.
Then just as the sun began to dip behind the peaks, they saw it.
It emerged like a vision from the snow, nestled between the arms of two great mountains. Tall and regal, with towers crowned in silver and white marble, its stone walls shimmered faintly beneath a veil of frost. Light flickered in the windows, golden and warm, like beacons of light against the cold.
Bridges of carved wood arched over frozen streams. A path lined with crystalline trees led to the great iron gates, which bore the crest of the ancient house, etched in silver, shaped like flame wrapped around a star.
Rose's breath caught.
The mansion wasn't just beautiful. It was as though God himself had dreamed it into being.
The view behind it was even more breathtaking: a vast drop into a hidden valley below, where a still lake reflected the last blush of sunset, rimmed with trees heavy in snow. The sky above was streaked with lavender and fire.
Ivar turned to her.
"This is home," he said, quietly.
She stared at the gates, then the towers, then the mountain sky.
And for the first time since she had lost her voice, she felt not grief but awe.
He led her forward.
The gates opened on its hinge with a soft whisper, as though recognizing him or perhaps, recognizing her.
They stepped inside together and somewhere in the heart of the house, a light flared to life, soft and steady, like it had been waiting for their arrival.
Only when Ivar pressed his hand to a carved stone embedded with a sigil did the main door open.
Ivar turned to her. "No one finds this place unless it wants to be found or unless they're bound to me."
Rose nodded once.
He offered his hand. She took it.
They stepped inside together.
On the other side, silence fell like snow.
The air was colder here thin and clean and untouched.
The manor was built into the stone itself, with towers that spiraled high above, windows like mirrors turned inward, and a great door of black iron carved with celestial runes.
Rose's breath caught. She had not expected the manor to be so beautiful.
The mansion looked less like a fortress and more like a forgotten dream.
"I was born here," Ivar said softly.
Inside, light bloomed along the walls. Runes flickered to life, blue, gold, pale green. The hall stretched long and shadowed, ending in a circular chamber beneath a stained-glass dome. Dust floated like snowflakes, caught in columns of enchanted light.
Ivar turned to her.
"You'll be safe here," he said. "The magic won't let anyone in, who means you harm."
Rose stepped forward, her feet soft on the white marble floor.
"Welcome home," Ivar said turning to her with a smile on his handsome face.
"It's a beautiful home," she whispered in awe.