“We’re not making enough progress.” Leander trudged forward through the knee-deep snow, struggling with every step.

“There’s nothing we can do. If we try to leave the trail, we could end up swallowed by snow,” Sander replied. Ignoring the burn of his lungs and the twitches of pain throughout his body, he plowed onward. Injuries would heal.

“If we can’t make the farmhouse before nightfall, we’ll have to make camp, and the longer we’re out here, the higher the chance we’ll succumb to the cold. Another snowstorm could roll in, and I don’t have to explain what a catastrophe that would be,” Leander said.

Sander couldn’t fault Leander for being grouchy and frustrated. He wasn’t in the greatest mood either. “We’ll have to deal with it. Right now we’ve got about two miles of visibility. We should be thankful for that.”

Twisting his torso, Leander glared at Sander over his shoulder. A purplish bruise extended down from his hairline onto his brow, a blow from the accident.

Sander paused. Readjusting the pack over his shoulder, he returned Leander’s regard. “What’s the scowl for?” Sander asked, careful to keep his voice neutral.

“You just don’t seem to get it. We’re going to die out here if another storm comes in. We don’t have enough food, enough shelter, enough blankets. We’re crawling along at a snail’s pace here, and I can’t figure why you’re not more frustrated,” Leander said. He threw his pack onto the snow.

There could only be one reason for Leander to let go of his bag. The man either needed to piss, or he was about to throw a punch. Sander figured the latter, considering Leander’s aggressive posture and deepening scowl.

“I am frustrated. But whining about it won’t help matters,” Sander said, instantly regretting the snap in his tone.

“Whining? Screw you, Sander. I’ve got a wife and a child to get home to, also. You’re not the only one with family. What, just because we’re not royal we don’t matter as much?” Leander took a step closer.

“You know damn well titles don’t matter when it comes to life or death,” Sander snarled. He slung his pack off and pitched it blindly to the side. Striding forward in tandem with Leander, as if this were a dance rather than the precursor to a brawl, Sander snatched up the front of Leander’s coat. Leander echoed the movement, fists curling into his jacket. Face-to-face, about to come to blows, Sander recognized the exact moment shock and astonishment entered Leander’s eyes. The brutal truth of their life or death struggle had taken a psychological as well as physical toll on them both. Sander felt it, the need to irrationally strike out at something, anything, to vent the desperation gripping his gut.

Turning on each other in a time of crisis wasn’t the answer.

Sander’s fury fizzled and he drew Leander into a tight bear hug. A hug Leander fervently returned.

“I didn’t mean that, you know,” Leander said after releasing Sander.

“I know. You’ve sacrificed more than anyone to keep me and my family safe. We’re exhausted, injured, sick. Worried. We both just realized at the same time that the odds of us dying out here have increased exponentially.” Sander clapped Leander amiably on the shoulder. “It creates its own tension.”

Leander wiped a gloved hand down his face then glanced out at the endlessly white landscape. “Yeah. It sure as hell does. We should get moving.”

Sander picked up his pack and slid the straps over his shoulders. Relieved to have put the discord behind them, he fell into step behind Leander once again. A grim weight accompanied their silence, as if both men were thinking about odds and outcomes—and having trouble finding anything positive in their situation.

Death loomed closer, breathing down the backs of their necks.

“This was the best play. Elias is quick. He’s fast. He’ll go undetected and get Raune free.” Chey paced before the door as the children disappeared into the gloom. She had to keep moving and stay occupied. Even though the ache in her belly and hip grew to a throbbing pain, she refused to stop.

Couldn’t stop.

Not when her children wandered through hidden walls in a castle whose occupants wished them harm.

After approximately seven minutes, Chey cracked open the hidden door and listened for sounds of movement or voices. The chances that anyone would be here after the exodus from the castle were low. Hearing nothing but silence, she pushed the door open and stepped into the library. The door itself was actually a section of the bookcase, disguised among all the other bookcases lining the walls. Although heavy, the specially rigged hinges allowed the bookcase to swing open with little effort.

Feeling her way past a heavy desk and two armchairs, Chey navigated the dark room toward the door. Once there, she drew in a deep breath and opened it two inches. Deciding to use fire as her bait, she cupped her hand around the side of her mouth and shouted, “Fire! Fire!”

Please let this work. Closing the door, Chey felt her way back to the bookcase and slipped past it to the hidden tunnel beyond. She doubted the guard would be able to pinpoint this room exactly, not when so many others lined the hallways, but that was part of the plan. To force him to spend time searching for the fake fire and the woman who’d sounded the alarm.

Chey pulled the bookcase closed and put her ear to the wood, not expecting to hear anything but listening nonetheless.

Five minutes crept by.