The North Beast - Cassian ❄️

Snow had stopped feeling cold hours ago. That was the frightening part.

My lashes were white with frost, breath shallow and ragged as the wind dragged needles of ice across my skin. Every step had become slower than the last, boots heavy, legs numb, thoughts slipping like water through my fingers. The world had narrowed to white and gray and the dull, tempting idea of rest.Just for a moment, I told myself. Just stay still.

I didn’t hear him at first.

What cut through the haze was the shadow, a dark shape moving where nothing else moved. Large. Solid. Real. I blinked, convinced it was another trick of the storm, until a voice followed. Low. Rough. Irritated.

“Seven hells,” he muttered. “You’ll freeze solid out here.”

Strong hands caught me. They were gloved, rough with calluses, warm enough that it hurt. I gasped, a broken sound tearing out of me as the shock of it dragged me back toward awareness.

“Easy,” he said, gruff and sharp, but his grip tightened when my knees buckled. “Don’t fight it. I’ve got you.”

I looked up, barely, and saw him through a veil of snow. Tall. Broad. Fur-lined cloak dusted white. Dark hair tied back, eyes the color of storm clouds judging the horizon. His scowl deepened the moment he really saw me.

“You’re half-dead,” he said flatly. Then, quieter, like an accusation aimed at the world itself, “Idiot.”

I tried to protest. My lips wouldn’t cooperate.

He cursed under his breath and shifted me without ceremony, lifting me as if I weighed nothing at all. One arm hooked under my knees, the other firm around my back, pulling me against the heat of his chest. The warmth seeped in slowly, painfully, like life returning to a frozen limb.

“Stay awake,” he ordered, already walking. Each step was steady, purposeful, as though the storm were an inconvenience rather than a threat. “If you sleep, I’ll carry a corpse instead of a woman, and I have no interest in that.”

I laughed weakly. Or maybe I sobbed. Hard to tell.

“Grumpy,” I murmured.

His jaw tightened. “Alive,” he corrected. “Focus on that.”

I felt his cloak wrap tighter around me, blocking the wind. One gloved hand shifted to cradle the back of my head, shielding my face as snow whipped past us. The gesture was careful, almost gentle at odds with the scowl carved into his features.

“You wandered far from safety,” he went on, voice rough but steady, as if speaking anchored him. “Northern storms don’t forgive mistakes.”

“I didn’t... plan to,” I whispered.

“Few ever do.”

There was a pause, then a quieter admission, meant more for himself than me.

“Next time, you won’t face one alone.”

I clung to that warmth, to that promise, as darkness threatened again. This time, when my eyes fluttered shut, it was to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my ear, strong, stubborn, refusing to let go.