Snow crunched under Alessio’s boots as he moved in front of Noa instinctively, gun raised, eyes narrowed on the figure approaching.

Rook.

But not the Rook Noa remembered.

The boy he’d mourned was long gone.

This man was sharp-jawed and colder than death, eyes like razors and movements like he’d been trained by shadows. He didn’t even flinch when Noa whispered his name.

“Rook…”

The man didn’t blink. “Noa.”

The woman in white stepped forward, her dress too clean for war, her ...