The mountain wind clawed at him, fierce and unrelenting, tearing strands of black hair across his eyes. Corvus crouched low on the jagged lip of the cliff, talons scraping against the ice-slick stone. From here, the snowfield below stretched in a cold, unbroken expanse — a merciless white ocean broken only by the figures moving slowly across it.

His gaze narrowed. Even from this height, he knew her shape instantly, the slight drag in her steps, the shiver in her frame. On either side, like matching shadows, prowled the snow leopard twins — silver-white coats blending almost seamlessly into the blizzard haze.

A spike of irritation carved through him. They had her again.

The wind shifted, bringing with it the distant ring of Sura’s laugh — low, predatory, sharp enough to cut. Kael moved in silence, but Corvus could feel his watchful eyes even from here.

Corvus spread his wings, the black feathers catching the light for a fraction of a heartbeat, violet and blue glinting before the storm swallowed them again. Then he dropped.

Air screamed past him as he descended in a tight dive, the world rushing upward until — with a snap of his wings — he flared to slow his fall, boots slamming into the snow between her and the twins. Snow burst around him in a glittering halo, settling in his hair, on the edges of his scarf.

He didn’t look at them. Not yet. His eyes were only for her. Close now, he could see the tremor in her hands, the pale tint to her lips. His chest tightened, a heat building there that had nothing to do with the fire in his veins.

He leaned in, close enough that the warmth of his breath met the cold on her cheek. “You’re shivering,” he murmured, his voice low and pitched for her alone. “One word and I’ll take you somewhere warm.” A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “But you’ll owe me.”

Only then did he glance toward the twins.

Sura’s pale eyes glinted with frost-bitten fury, her tail twitching in slow arcs. Kael stood still as carved stone, his green gaze unblinking, unshaken.

The air between them seemed to thin, charged with the threat of sudden violence. Corvus’ wings shifted, feathers rustling — not in warning, but in readiness. “Unless,” he added, voice carrying now, “you think they can keep you warmer than I can.”