Whispers Beneath the Snow

Ayla Cray’s gloves creaked as she gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white beneath the worn leather. Outside, the storm battered the village hall, the wind howling like a wild beast. She stood alone at the front of the room, facing a packed crowd waiting for the final showdown.

The door swung open with a blast of icy wind, and Gideon Ross strode in, dusting snow off his coat. He moved with the confidence of a man who didn’t need to prove himself. He didn’t even look at Ayla as he made his way to the podium. That suited her fine. Let him think he’d already won.

Wes leaned close, flicking his silver coin between his fingers. “You’re gripping that table like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.”

Ayla didn’t loosen her grip. “Maybe it is.”

“You know he’s going to throw everything at you.”