— Get into my bed now, you fat cow!

The smell of mint and wild thyme filled the air. Damian knelt beside her and pressed the cup to her trembling hands.

“Drink this,” he said quietly. “It’ll warm you from the inside.”

Elena hesitated, her eyes darting between him and the fire. But something in his gaze — tired, honest, desperate — made her trust him. She sipped the liquid, grimacing at the bitter taste, but a faint warmth began to bloom in her chest.

He moved to the hearth, adding more wood to the flames. For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the storm howled outside, like a wounded animal pacing around the cabin.

Finally, Damian broke the silence. “You shouldn’t be alive. No one survives a storm like this.”

She looked down. “Maybe I wasn’t meant to.”

Her voice was so soft he almost missed it. He turned to her — really looked at her — and something shifted inside him. Beneath the blanket and exhaustion, she looked fragile, yes, but not broken. There was fire behind those eyes.

“Why were you out there?” he asked.

Elena hesitated, then whispered, “Because dying seemed easier than the life I had.”

Damian froze, the poker in his hand halfway to the fire. He had seen death, treated madness, and buried too many souls on this mountain — but her words cut deeper than the cold.

“You ran away,” he said, not as a question.

She nodded. “From a man. From my stepfather’s deal. From everything.”

Silence settled again, heavy and alive. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his movements slow, careful.

“You’re safe here,” he murmured. “No one climbs this far in winter. The mountain keeps its secrets.”

But Elena shook her head. “No one is safe from the kind of men I’ve met.”

Damian’s jaw clenched. “Then they haven’t met me.”

The words came out sharper than he intended, like steel against stone. For the first time, she smiled — faintly, wearily.

The firelight painted her face in gold and shadow. He noticed the small scar near her temple, the bruises along her wrist, the story her body carried without words.

He stood abruptly, as if the sight of her pain burned him. “Rest. I’ll keep watch.”

But when he turned toward the window, he froze. Two flickering lights moved through the darkness outside — torches, weaving closer through the snow.

His heart dropped. “Damn it,” he whispered.

“What is it?”

He looked at her. “Someone followed you.”

Elena’s face went pale. “No. It can’t be.”

“Stay quiet,” he ordered, grabbing the rifle from the wall. The old wood creaked beneath his boots as he crossed to the door. The wind slammed harder, pushing snow through every crack.

He peered through the frosted glass. Shadows danced beyond the trees — three, maybe four men. One of them shouted, the words torn away by the storm, but Damian caught a name: “Elena!”

She gasped. “It’s him.”

“Haralamb?”

She nodded, trembling.

Damian’s mind raced. There was no time to plan, no time to think. He turned back to her, his voice like a whip. “Under the bed. Now!”

She obeyed without question, curling beneath the heavy furs just as fists began pounding on the door.

“Open up, doctor! We know she’s here!”

Damian tightened his grip on the rifle. The storm shrieked outside, the fire hissed and popped, and his pulse pounded like thunder in his ears.

The door shook again.

Then — silence.

He stepped closer, every muscle coiled, every breath sharp. He was about to reach for the latch when a voice, low and venomous, came from the other side.

“You can’t hide her forever, Cristea. The mountain has eyes. And so do I.”

The wind swallowed the sound. Footsteps faded. The torches disappeared into the night.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then he exhaled, long and heavy, and lowered the rifle.

“Elena,” he said softly. “You can come out.”

She crawled out from beneath the bed, her face pale, her eyes wide. “They’ll come back.”

“Yes,” Damian said. “But next time, they won’t find her.”

She looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He stared into the fire, and for the first time, a faint smile touched his lips. “Because tomorrow, the mountain will bury every trace of her path. And if fate allows… it will give her a new one.”

Outside, the storm began to calm. The snow fell slower, gentler — as if the mountain itself had heard his vow.