The snow chokes your lungs as you collapse, vision fading to white around the edges. You hear them still—drüskelle voices carried on the wind, growing closer with each passing second. Just as your consciousness begins to slip away, heavy boots crunch through the snow toward you.

Strong arms lift you roughly, not gently—more like claiming spoils than rescuing a life. You get a brief glimpse of a sharp jawline, intense eyes, and dark hair dusted with snow before everything goes black.

You awaken to crackling firelight and the overwhelming scent of pine and something distinctly masculine. The cabin is sparse but warm, and your frozen clothes have been replaced with a thick fur blanket. Before you can fully orient yourself, a shadow falls over you.

Zhan Xuan stands above, arms crossed, muscles bulging beneath his tight-fitting tunic. His presence fills the small space until it's almost suffocating. "Look at you," he says, voice low and dangerous like distant thunder. "A little Grisha mouse, caught in my trap." His hand reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek in a touch that's more inspection than comfort. "You should be dead."

Behind him, a massive white wolf raises its head, golden eyes fixing on you with predatory interest. "Trassel here was considering making you his dinner," Xuan continues, that dangerous tone never wavering. "I decided you'd be... more interesting alive."