When a deadly demi-lich needs to be hunted, twenty-year-old Claris defies tradition and vows to destroy it—risking her reputation, her father’s standing, and her own life. But to succeed, she must rely on the one man she shouldn’t trust: her future father-in-law’s infuriatingly handsome garde.
Claris has always known her duty—manage the estate while her father recovers, and marry the noble she’s been promised to. Yet her rare talent with impalement arts makes her the only one capable of leading the hunt. Winning the respect of her garde is hard enough without Torsten, the vicomte’s maddeningly tempting garde, distracting her at every turn.
As garde fall, Claris and Torsten are forced into a perilous alliance that tests her skill, her resolve, and her heart. Torsten makes her feel like she could be more than the life laid out for her—but defeating the demi-lich will demand a sacrifice she never imagined.
Failure means death. Success might cost her everything else.
When a deadly demi-lich needs to be hunted, twenty-year-old Claris defies tradition and vows to destroy it—risking her reputation, her father’s standing, and her own life. But to succeed, she must rely on the one man she shouldn’t trust: her future father-in-law’s infuriatingly handsome garde.
Claris has always known her duty—manage the estate while her father recovers, and marry the noble she’s been promised to. Yet her rare talent with impalement arts makes her the only one capable of leading the hunt. Winning the respect of her garde is hard enough without Torsten, the vicomte’s maddeningly tempting garde, distracting her at every turn.
As garde fall, Claris and Torsten are forced into a perilous alliance that tests her skill, her resolve, and her heart. Torsten makes her feel like she could be more than the life laid out for her—but defeating the demi-lich will demand a sacrifice she never imagined.
Failure means death. Success might cost her everything else.
Each knife came free from the ashen tree trunk with a satisfying pull, with only Claris’s ice-white fingertips visible in the woollen gloves. Her skill at knife-throwing was still a secret to most, considered unladylike, but it had never bothered those who loved her. Her mentor only cared about her strength in the impalement arts; her late mother had simply seen her as a bright light; her father’s attention was focused on the wild streak running through her dutiful exterior.
To everyone else, she was Claris, or simply Demoiselle, poised to marry and bear the next Comte de Grecy.
At twenty, Claris should have been accustomed to the title and burdens that came with it. Her body was lithe, absent of curves the rich coveted, and her long flaxen hair constantly tied back in a multitude of plaits and braids. Neither aspect of her appearance supported the title, nor was she yet betrothed. It was her face, with the high cheekbones and deep-set brown eyes, that gave others pause. They gave weight to her stare and gravitas to her words.
She pulled the wolverine-fur-lined cloak closer around her shoulders after sheathing the knives. Argine, her merlin, sat hooded, feathers ruffling now and then in the wind, his small talons curling tight around the leather. She liked having him tethered to the nearby block perch while she practiced, the sound of him soothing.
Angry dark clouds hovered above, heavy with the promise of more snow. Claris shivered and readied herself again, hoping she would remain undisturbed in the eastern walled garden. Deep down she knew such thought was folly. Something always demanded attention, especially with the below-average intake of both food and taxes over the past year.
She narrowed her gaze, focusing on her target once more. With a swift, practiced motion, she hurled a knife, watching as it struck true, quivering as it embedded itself in the wood.
The faint rustle of leaves and the soft crunch of snow underfoot alerted her to a presence. She spun around, fingers reflexively readying another knife. Standing at the edge of the garden path was a garde, tall and sturdy as trained warriors of the county often were. A honed body of broad shoulders and musculature accompanied his golden brown skin. His face was not one she instantly recognised as one of their own and his surcoat absent of any heraldry. Her fingers tightened over the knife.
“Impressive,” he said, forgoing propriety. He was of no Onvillian descent. The shaved left side of his head, with the right side resplendent with raven-dark hair, braided back and away from his face, gave it away.
She glanced at the breeches she wore, and the knives sheathed over her body. She’d never had a garde find her practicing. Despite the whispers in the household about her peculiar hobbies, someone witnessing it was a different issue altogether. Falconry they accepted, but not the impalement arts.
Claris masked her roiling emotions with a composed nod, sliding the knife back into her sheath. “Thank you,” she replied.
“You practice often?” he continued, stepping closer, his height a head above her own.
“Often enough to stay sharp.”
Her fingers, marked by tell-tale scars, twitched slightly as she met his gaze. He hadn’t even blinked at her attire.
“Torsten.” He gave a slight bow, his movements fluid and respectful. The faint, earthy, musky scent of him reached her as a light breeze stirred the air.
“Claris,” she returned, keeping her tone even. She wanted to retreat, but his presence held her there. She felt seen, something she yearned to hold on to. Not seen as a means for titles and land, but simply as another person.
With a final shared glance, Torsten nodded, stepping back. “I’ll leave you to your practice.”
Claris watched as he resumed his path.
Jehan, the estate’s seneschal, now came into view, dashing any hopes of continuing practice. Bushy eyebrows framed his large, wide-open green eyes. Claris wondered if he’d witnessed her encounter with Torsten. She shivered at the thought of his name, his stare.
“Demoiselle,” he began, “Monsieur Henri Guignard, Vicomte de Chavers, has arrived.”
Claris had hoped the foul weather would’ve delayed his arrival, but he’d arrived on schedule. Henri was a vicomte under her father’s county and had entered negotiations with her father for her marriage to his eldest son, Alain. Thankfully, an agreement had yet to be made. Alain was pleasant enough to be sure, but the few moments of conversation they’d shared left much to desire. He hardly paid any attention to her, and he responded tersely to her questions. Claris sensed no warmth from Alain and she sighed at the thought. How she longed to go out on an adventure, to at least travel to other countries like young men her age got to do.
“See him to the parlour. I will be there shortly.” Her current attire wouldn’t be suitable to greet the vicomte. Not only would it be viewed as a sign of disrespect, but also place doubt that the comte was raising a well-respected daughter. Claris didn’t want to risk her father’s position.
Jehan gave a small bow and headed back into the manor. Claris couldn’t do much without his support, for in her father’s weakened state, Jehan took charge of all administration for the estate. She should’ve been learning from him, for assisting with the affairs of a household would be one of many duties a wife would assume, but she much preferred knife-throwing.
She’d planned to unhood Argine after her practice and let him stretch his wings. Claris brushed his wing in farewell.
Tucked near the door to the inside was a shed, primarily for gardening equipment, but Claris always had over-gowns tucked there. She slid a navy dyed gown over her breeches and went inside.
A purr at her legs drew her attention, as Pepin, her pet lynx, rubbed against her legs. His fur was soft to touch, a pale silvery-grey, with faint dark spots, though barely visible with his thick winter coat. She knelt to scratch behind his tuft ears. “We have the vicomte here today.” He mewed in response and she smiled. Then with her shoulders back and head high, and with Pepin at her heel, she went towards the parlour.
The room was spacious yet inviting, its high ceiling adorned with intricate mouldings and large, mullioned windows allowing ample sunlight to flood the space during the day. Heavy, burgundy velvet drapes framed the windows, while the walls wore a sophisticated palette of muted greens and golds. In the centre of the parlour, a grand fireplace dominated one wall, its mantel adorned with delicate vases. Plush armchairs and settees, upholstered in rich brocades and soft leathers, were thoughtfully arranged around low, ornately carved mahogany tables. Claris spied the mahogany tea cart nearby, with an array of delicate porcelain teacups and saucers, each hand-painted with floral motifs. She hoped someone had removed the one that was chipped last week.
Vicomte Henri had sat himself close to the warm fire and remained seated upon her entrance. Pepin laid himself down upon one of the rugs, nearby Claris but not too close to the fire. One paw stretched lazily forward, claws briefly unsheathing.
“Demoiselle Claris, pleased to see you well,” he said, with a small incline of his head.
“How was the trip, Monsieur?” Claris asked, taking a seat opposite.
“As well as one may expect with such weather. But, I am here to see about the comte. His absence at court is raising questions.” The victome paused mid-sip. He’d spotted Pepin.
Claris folded her hands together in her lap, attempting to hold herself steady and serene. She and her father shouldn’t still be at the Grecy estate. As soon as warm days ended, they should’ve headed back to the capital, but illness prevented the travel. Court attendance during the cooler months was expected of her father and every day away from court made her father lose favour. Claris knew Vicomte Henri wished for elevation, and what better than to take the place of an ailing comte.
“Of course.” She swallowed. She needed something to dissuade any further actions by the vicomte. “He is resting today, for we leave to Briarcilly on the morrow.”
The vicomte raised an eyebrow, but Claris schooled her features. She’d tamed her ire.
“That is good news. We can travel together.”
Inwardly she cursed. Of course. She should’ve thought of that possibility. But it was too late to rescind her words. “My father would be most pleased to travel with you.”
Jehan walked into the parlour, leaning down to whisper in her ear. “A solitary man approaches.”
“Keep him in the courtyard.”
“Is something the matter?” Henri asked.
Claris forced a smile. “No. A mere trifle requires my attention. Jehan will escort you to our guest chambers.”
Jehan gave a small bow. “This way, Monsieur.” Claris waited for the vicomte to stand and follow Jehan out of the parlour, then made her way to the stair turret, Pepin close behind her heels. Up high in the turret, Claris had a good outlook over the courtyard and the approaching path. There was only one way into the estate and its surrounding grounds.
It wasn’t that he was solitary that stirred her interest. Nor the fact he carried no outward weaponry. It was that he was on foot, trudging through the snowfall, with not even a mule behind, while his hooded cloak shrouded most of his features. He couldn’t be one of the locals of Grecy, none would wear lynx fur. Nor did he carry any supplies that indicated a physician. So, he wasn’t there to help her father’s health. To travel with nothing but what was on your back only boded ill. Claris didn’t want trouble. Especially with the vicomte in residence. He needed no more ill claims against her father.
She waited a few moments more, watching for any signs there might be more on their way. Meanwhile, the garde on hand halted the lone traveller within the courtyard. She sighed and hoped this would have a quick resolution. With Pepin again at her heels, she left the turret and crossed over the salted snowy path to meet the traveller and garde alike.
Close up, she could see what lay beneath the hood, and the visitor’s features gave her pause. He bore the same distinguishing large flat nose, prominent square bony jawline, and deep melting eyes as her late mentor. He was of Djeyun descent. His skin a light brown and ash brown curls cropped closely to his scalp. Those of Djeya lived at the very southern end of their continent, where the winters didn’t bite as cold, but the summers harsher. He’d travelled far if he still called that country home.
Claris shifted her attention to one of the garde. “Well?”
“Say’s there’s some nasty business with a lich.”
“Demi-lich,” the traveller corrected. His tone deep and rich, yet soft. A subtle undercurrent of danger lacing the word.
Stories were told of liches, mages who’d found immortality by turning themselves undead by removing their very souls. A dark stain on mages, and why many distrusted them. But Claris had never heard of a demi-lich before. Liches had powerful magic, able to spread corruption and decay, blighting the surrounding land. Some even told they instilled fear and dread, even paralysing those they encountered.
“We have heard of no such disturbance in this county,” Claris said. Pepin pressed closer to her leg. “I will not waste the comte’s time on the word of one man.”
The stranger glanced at the lynx. “It doesn’t leave witnesses,” the traveller said. “Demi-liches are much worse than your average lich. What men I had, have died. The law—”
“I know the law,” Claris snapped. The garde closest to her flinched, and Pepin mewed displeasure. She didn’t need this. Her father was too ill to help with any fresh problem, and she’d already leaned so heavily on Jehan. The condestable would recite the law and do nothing more. But it’d bring dishonour if she turned this man away. Worse, it’d destabilise her father’s position. The law dictated that any malevolent being upon a count’s county was their burden, and his men shall cut it out before it infects another’s land. “Where did you come from?”
“Dosse.”
The township of Dosse lay to their south-west and was famous for its lead and silver mines. An important source for the creation of coinage. But it also fell under a marquis’s responsibility.
“And did the Marquis de Argentum not lend aid?” Like her father, the marquis would have had an obligation, especially as Dosse lay in a march, a region at the boundaries of the kingdom.
“I did not seek his aid,” the stranger said. “Grecy is the aid I seek. Men I need.”
She couldn’t readily see any deception in his eyes, but his lips twitched in the corners, as if amused by her presence.
“You must understand, it would be a good trap to strip away the garrison for a hostile takeover.” It may have appeared paranoid to many, but Claris would not trust someone so easily and endanger her father. Especially now that the vicomte was in residence. Someone more skilled in subterfuge might be able to see a connection.
The traveller reached into his cloak, the garde and Pepin tensed, and pulled out a strip of bark. But it wasn’t ordinary bark. The colour had faded from the surface, and a light frosting covered it. Claris took it and turned it this way and that, and even let Pepin take an experimental sniff. But she found no sign of chemicals or magical runes indicative of magecraft. She let out a barely audible sigh. Only a particular group of people would have such an item.
“You are a ley tracer,” Claris said. They weren’t common, but some made a living hunting down the malevolent, seeking them out for whatever purpose. “We have no current bounty.” Perhaps his arrival coinciding with the vicomte was happenchance.
The traveller shook his head. “I don’t do it for the coin.”
“Very well,” she said. “Come inside and I will see what I can do.” She held up a hand, indicating that the garde needed not follow. Pepin continued to stay at her side.
At the doorway, Claris stamped her leather boots to shake free the snow. She waited for the traveller to follow suit and led him into the parlour. Pepin hung back, not being fond of fire. By the fireplace, the traveller held out his now degloved hand. “I’m Brahim.”
Claris pulled her hands free from her own gloves and took his offered hand. “Claris.” His fingers bore similar tell-tale scars from throwing knives like hers (though Pepin, and Argine, had also contributed with a few). She also couldn’t shake the knowledge that Brahim shared more than a common appearance with her late mentor.
“Are you one of the comte’s wives?” he asked.
“No, he is my father.” Claris couldn’t help the uncomfortable squirm of being appraised by the stranger. He likely took in the downturned edges of her mouth and port-wine stain near her left ear and took pity on her. Claris didn’t think her life warranted any such thing. She was also glad that her father only had taken one wife. If he hadn’t, she’d likely had never got the chance to study knife-throwing, nor had the freedom with Pepin. There’d be too many other eyes scrutinising her behaviour.
“And this is your lynx?” he asked.
She couldn’t help but smile towards her pet. “Yes. I raised Pepin. He is as loyal as they come.”
He stepped away from the fire and knelt. “Do you mind?”
“That will be up to Pepin.” She focused back on her cat. “Keep watch, boy.” She went out into the vestibule, where the seneschal already waited.
“Anything you need, Demoiselle?” Jehan asked.
“Is the vicomte settled?”
Jehan nodded. “I can keep him occupied if needed.”
“That would be wise. I will see if Father is well enough to receive this new guest,” she said. “Pepin is in there.”
Through the hall and up the stairs, her father’s valet stood stoically outside, giving her a polite nod. Claris entered the northern solar, which was her father’s room.
His colour appeared healthier than the day before, but a sheen of sweat coated his brow, and he curled slightly in on himself. His receding hairline made the sweat more obvious, and his black hair had more flecks of grey than before. She missed seeing his smile. It was a good smile.
“Father, we have a visitor,” Claris said. “He brings news of a demi-lich in our domain.”
Her father blinked a few times, coming awake with comprehension, and shuffled to prop himself up on the bedhead. “A demi-lich?”
“That is his claim.” Claris hoped Brahim to be wrong, for if the demi-lich poisoned the crops nearby, they’d be in even further strife.
“Best bring him up here then,” her father said. Claris opened her mouth to protest, but he waved a hand. “Go. Let’s not keep him waiting.”
She hesitated. “Vicomte Henri is also here. Should we really let a stranger see your weakness?”
“If the vicomte is here,” he said, “then all the more reason I see this stranger. Show I am not too weak to attend to affairs in my county.”
Claris reasoned he spoke sense, and she would not question her father’s decisions. He still had his mind.
She paused when back on the parlour’s threshold. The seneschal still hovered nearby, and Pepin curled himself up away from fire and stranger alike.
“My father will see you now,” she said and beckoned Brahim to follow. Although Pepin’s tufted ears twitched, he made no move to follow as well. Once the man was beside her, she decided the truth would be the best. “He has the bloody flux,” she warned, “but he will pull through this.”
Brahim stayed silent at her side as he followed her up the stairs and to the solar. She didn’t miss that his gaze didn’t even stray to the paintings that lined the hall; paintings that would fetch a high price for a thief.
He waited at the entrance while Claris went in.
“Father,” she said, “this is Brahim.” She nodded at Brahim, and he took a step towards the bed.
“Comte Arnoul,” Brahim said and bowed. “I trace malice in our land, and this demi-lich is in yours. One cannot take such a creature alone.” Brahim glanced at Claris. “And, if you permit, I would have Ziri accompany me.”
Claris stiffened slightly at the mention of her mentor. The comte also glanced towards her. “I’m sorry to say, but Ziri passed on last winter.”
Claris took the opening. “How did you know Ziri was in our employ?”
Brahim angled himself to address Claris without showing disrespect to her father. “We’re kin, and kin like to keep in contact when we can. I’m sad to hear of his passing.”
Claris was a little sceptical. Ziri had never spoken to her of any kin and surely kin would know when one had passed? “I will take you to his mourning stone once this is done.”
“But why request Ziri?” her father asked. A brief glimmer of pain lanced through his face. She’d get the pincerna to attend him.
Brahim glanced again at Claris, and she shifted her weight to her other foot, not liking the attention he gave. “This isn’t pleasant business.”
The comte waved a hand at his daughter. “She is well hardy.”
Claris stood a little straighter at her father’s recognition. She knew he wasn’t referring to going through the loss of her mother, but her wilder streak with taming Pepin, and the numerous cuts upon her hands.
“A demi-lich has a single weak point, so tiny only a fine blade has the chance of piercing,” Brahim said. “And no one wants to stand toe to toe with a demi-lich.”
“But you yourself have such a skill,” Claris said, confident she’d recognised his scars correctly.
Brahim gave a small nod. Again, his lips twitched slightly. “I’ve taken many a chance, which is something I shouldn’t repeat. A second knife thrower is what I truly need.” His eyes strayed to Claris. Had he recognised her knife scars on her fingers? “But without such, I’d welcome some of your men.”
The comte grunted. “You want the assistance of my garde?”
Claris held her tongue, despite wanting to volunteer herself to be that second knife thrower. She had blinked and missed the opening, and would be remiss to voice her opinion now.
“Handful, not a large company,” Brahim said. “And soon. Each day, the ley trail weakens.”
“Claris,” her father said, “please find Levlan and send him here. We have much to discuss.”
Claris nodded her assent. Levlan was the estate’s mareschal, and voice of the garde. “Brahim, if you will.” She gestured to the door, and as her father did not indicate otherwise, Brahim exited the room.
Hubert, the ever-silent valet was nearby. “Please fetch the pincerna for Father,” Claris whispered on passing.
Claris led Brahim back to the parlour. Pepin lifted his head and tracked her movement. “Please, wait here, and I will take you to Ziri’s stone once I am done.”
She waited until Brahim had taken one of the chairs before departing. Back outside, out near the southern pond, she located Levlan from behind. His broad shoulders and stubbornness to never cover his bald head for warmth a giveaway.
“Levlan,” she said. He turned and inclined his head from respect. “My father wishes your presence. It is to discuss garde who shall accompany that traveller.”
His eyes flicked up to the house, before focusing back on Claris. “Demoiselle.” He stepped around and trudged up to the house.
Claris only lingered outside in winter if need necessitated it, or she was practicing, but the thought of inside and the stranger, one who knew Ziri, didn’t appeal as much as she’d first thought. Especially as she’d foolishly promised to take him to Ziri’s stone.
She traced her fingers over the hidden scars on her opposite hand. Scars from hard work and mistakes. Blood she’d shed under Ziri’s tutelage, an escape found after her mother’s death. Brahim’s presence was bringing up all the thoughts Claris wanted to keep buried. The fear crawling under her skin that she may also lose her father. How many losses can one endure before they break completely?
Yet this stranger had also seen loss. His eyes gave it away. No one can ever really hide the sheen of loss that covers one’s eyes.
She didn’t think it was the loss of his men, either.
Knowing she’d dallied enough, Claris made her way back indoors. Pepin was no longer in the parlour, but Brahim remained seated where she had left him. His eyes were closed, as if deep in thought.
Claris gently cleared her throat so as not to startle him. “If you would like, I have time now.”
Brahim’s eyes opened in a controlled way, similar to the way he came to his feet. “Much appreciated.”
She led him out to the western walled garden, past the bee boles, and towards the three downy birches that framed the estate’s mourning plaza. Frost caught on the branches gave them cascades of white, and nestled in amongst the cobbled mosaic paths and gardens were the limestone mourning stones. Claris would often come out there and stand before her mother’s stone, simply to talk and work through all the fears that plagued her.
No one in the kingdom was buried; instead, they were turned to ash, and the hollow interior of the stone filled with the remains. Ziri never spoke to Claris about doing it any other way. His stone was the only one not of Claris’s long family lineage to be mourned at the estate.
She stopped in front of his stone, dropped to one knee, and knelt her head against the cold front of it for a moment before standing. Brahim did no such thing.
“Would you like time alone?” Claris asked.
He shook his head. “How did he pass?”
No one died, simply passed. An ancient Onvillian belief was that one passes as their soul continues, and to die is for the soul to die too. It comforted her, that notion.
“The influenza. He… We tried everything. But his body eventually gave in.” It seemed so strange to her at the time, for someone so strong-willed and healthy to succumb to such a simple illness.
“Winters have been harsher,” Brahim said. “There’s no surprise a demi-lich has risen in such a climate.”
“But they can exist beyond the climates of winter, no?”
He nodded. “Of course, but death’s grasp is always keener in the cold.”
She shivered involuntarily. After a moment, Brahim motioned he was ready to move on. Pepin slunk over to them, pressing himself up against Claris. He licked his lips with content.
“Did you find a rabbit?”
Pepin purred in response. She reached down and gave his side an affectionate rub.
Claris then led Brahim back towards the house, although Pepin remained outside. The nightkeeper had restoked the fire and laid out a hot pot of tea and cakes in their absence, likely under the seneschal’s directive. Most nightkeepers avoided being seen or heard. They were fiercely loyal beings if you met their conditions; creatures eager for human dreams. Many argued for their purging, to classify them in the same class as a lich, but most found their dreams were worth an extra pair of hands, especially when it saved coin. Claris had been letting theirs feed on her exclusively. Even before her mother passed, nightmarish fever plagued Claris’s night dreams, providing terrifying shadowy creatures that she couldn’t even name. They only worsened upon losing her mother. Thankfully nightkeepers didn’t differentiate between good and bad dreams, and without their aid she was certain she’d never sleep well these days.
Claris took the pot and carefully poured out two cups. Brahim accepted the offered drink and took a tentative sip. A grimace quickly passed through his face and Claris contained her smile.
“Bark tea can be a little bitter,” she said. “Cake will help weather it. I’m afraid our honey ran out a couple weeks past.” Another reason to pack up and leave for Briarcilly. If they continued to dip into the winter stores, the people of Grecy would have even less to last them through the winter.
Brahim politely declined and took another sip. Claris took a large gulp, cherishing the liquid burning down her throat. She looked out the open window, watching the sun set behind the walls of the garden. It would spill oranges, reds, and purples across the deepening sky. The heavy clouds were a distant threat.
A door clicked shut and heavy footfalls came towards them. Claris didn’t make to move. Jehan was of lighter foot, so she knew it was Levlan who stood at the threshold. He tilted his head slightly. “Comte would see you, Demoiselle.”
Claris set her cup down, her hands trembling.
Would her father send her with Brahim?
From the Cold is a fresh fantasy romance that blends monster hunting with messy feelings and personal growth. At its heart is Claris, a twenty-year-old noblewoman who’s absolutely done with the polite life she’s supposed to live. Instead of sitting around preparing for an arranged marriage and managing an estate, she wants to be out in the world proving she can fight and survive like the blade-maidens she idolizes. When a terrifying demi-lich — a soul-stealing undead menace — starts threatening her father’s lands, Claris jumps at the chance to chase it down and show what she’s made of.
Claris doesn’t go it alone. She convinces her recovering father to let her join the hunt, and soon she’s trailing into danger with Torsten, one of her future father-in-law’s garde who’s equal parts infuriating and … well, pretty hard to ignore. That push-pull chemistry between them builds slowly and sweetly — think frustration turning into flirtation and then into something a lot deeper as the threat grows.
Along the way, Claris has to win over the rest of the garde, including fighters with their own quirks and flaws, and prove that she’s more than just a noble with a pretty face. The adventure throws everything at them: fae tricksters, goblins, marauders, corpse crawlers, and plenty of moments where the stakes feel impossible. All of this is wrapped up in a world with solid magic systems and lore that digs into duty, identity, and what it means to choose your own path.
What I liked most was how the story balances action and emotion without taking itself too seriously. Claris is brave but also vulnerable, and her journey feels as much internal as it is about slaying a monster. The romance isn’t insta-love — it simmers and complicates the plot while never overshadowing the main quest, which makes it feel sincere. If you’re into fantasy that mixes swordplay and sparks with a protagonist who’s determined to rewrite her destiny, From the Cold is a fun, engaging read.