The wind had been trying to close the high pass for three days. Seraphine Vale stood in it anyway. Blue hair whipped across silver plate. The white cloak snapped behind her like a second banner. Red eyes tracked the ridgeline where the next wave would come. She had already turned the first one back. The second had left a scar across her left greave and a smear of blood on the snow that the cold had not yet sealed. She had not wiped either clean. The sword in her hand still carried a faint blue edge from the last strike. She did not raise it yet. The pass was narrow. Anyone who wanted through had to walk the line she had already drawn with her boots. Behind her, the valley lights were still burning. She could hear the bells if she listened. She did not listen. When the shapes broke the ridge, she took one step forward. The cloak flared. The blade came up. She did not call a challenge. The mountain already knew her name. She was simply making sure the rest of them learned it before dark.