The fire did not warm the night as much as it pretended to.
It crackled brightly outside the cabin, orange tongues licking upward, throwing light across the snow and the four figures seated in a loose circle around it. Blankets were wrapped tight around shoulders and legs, steam rising faintly from bowls of soup held close to chests as if warmth could be drunk rather than felt.
Mira knelt closest to the flames. She tended the fire with practiced ease, turning strips of meat, the fat hissing softly as it dripped. Every few moments, she slid a piece free and dropped it into one of their bowls.
Dren sat with his back straight despite the fatigue buried deep in his shoulders, boots planted firmly in the snow. He watched the darkness more than the fire, eyes tracking the edge of the light as if expecting it to flinch.
Asha sat opposite him, knees pulled up under her blanket, steam curling around her face as she blew across her soup. Firelight traced the lines of her body beneath thick winter layers, catching in her eyes when she smiled—soft, genuine, a rare thing these days.
Veron sat slightly apart, propped carefully against a log, half his face wrapped in white bandages that cut his features in two. His bowl rested untouched in his hands. His jaw ached with every breath, ribs protesting each small movement. He listened more than he looked.
"This," Asha said quietly, glancing at the fire, "almost feels normal."
Dren snorted under his breath. "That's how it gets you."
Mira glanced over her shoulder, eyebrow lifting. "You don't trust a warm meal anymore?"
"I don't trust anything that asks me to relax," Dren replied. Then, softer, "Eat."
Asha smiled and obeyed. She took a spoonful, then another, humming faintly. "You will be a bad roommate."
Mira moved closer to Veron, crouching beside him. She slid a piece of meat into his bowl, careful not to brush his hands. "You should try. Small bites."
Veron tilted his head slightly in acknowledgment. After a moment, he lifted the bowl just enough to sip. Pain flared, bright and sharp—but he swallowed it down with the broth.
Asha watched him, her smile fading into something quieter. "You're stubborn."
The corner of Veron's mouth twitched. It was almost a smile.
Silence settled—not awkward, but heavy. The fire popped. Snow shifted softly somewhere in the dark.
Mira straightened, wiping her hands on her trousers. "When this is over," she said, eyes on the flames, "I want to sleep somewhere without hearing the wind argue with the walls."
Dren glanced at her. "Ambitious."
"I mean it," she said. "A bed. A roof that doesn't threaten to cave in. Food that doesn't taste like survival."
Asha laughed quietly. "I want hot water."
Dren considered that. "Now that," he said, "is unrealistic."
For a moment, they almost smiled like people who had not bled together.
Eventually, the bowls emptied. The fire burned lower. Cold crept back in, reclaiming its territory.
Veron shifted, a sharp breath escaping him despite his effort to keep quiet. Dren was on his feet instantly, reaching out—but Veron raised a hand, palm outward.
Dren stopped.
Veron pushed himself upright slowly, every movement deliberate. His ribs screamed. His vision narrowed. Still, he stood.
"I've got it," he rasped, the words rough, barely formed.
Dren studied him for a long second, then nodded once.
Veron turned toward the cabin and walked. Each step was an argument with his own body. Snow crunched underfoot. He did not look back.
Asha rose next, stretching carefully. "I should sleep too," she said, voice light but tired. She met Mira's eyes briefly, something unspoken passing between them, then headed inside.
That left Dren and Mira alone with the dying fire.
Mira sat down across from him, drawing her blanket tighter. "You hover," she said gently.
Dren arched an eyebrow. "Someone has to."
"You don't," she replied. "Not with us."
He looked at her then—not as a commander, not as a protector, but as an older brother might look at someone he'd had to grow up too fast beside.
"You think I don't know that?" he asked quietly.
She smiled faintly. "I think you forget it."
They sat in companionable silence until the cold finally won.
Inside the cabin, they slept close—four shapes sharing heat, breaths syncing in the dark. For a few stolen hours, they looked like siblings after a long night, unaware of the world waiting just beyond the door.
Morning came gray and merciless.
The cabin creaked under the weight of frost. Breath fogged the air inside. Supplies sat in a neat, discouraging pile: too little food, too little wood, too much winter.
In the morning.
Mira knelt by Veron, adjusting his bandages. He was awake but distant, pain pulling him in and out of focus.
Dren stood near the door.
"We can't stay," he said at last.
Mira's hands paused. "I know."
"One day," Dren continued. "We ride to the next village. Buy what we can. Wood. Food. Medicine."
"And then?"
"And then we come back."
Asha was already pulling on her boots. "I'll ready the horse."
Mira swallowed. "I should go with you."
Dren shook his head. "You're the only one who can keep him stable."
Veron stirred faintly, brow creasing. He tried to speak. Failed.
Mira rested a hand on his shoulder.
"We will be left alone," she said softly, a thin smile tugging at her lips.
Veron was terrified and stood staring at Dren.
"Looks like food and rest are doing their work," Dren said with a smile as he turned away.
Outside, the horse stamped impatiently, breath steaming.
Dren mounted first. Asha climbed up behind him, winter layers tight, body close for warmth. The saddlebags were empty, ready to be full.
The horse moved off.
Hoofprints marked the snow briefly before the wind erased them.
Mira stood in the doorway long after they vanished.
And in the village, the people there welcomed Kyle without knowing it did.
He rode, unhurried, cloak dusted with snow, posture relaxed, the men behind him. Children ran past his horse, laughing. An old man waved from a doorway.
"Kyle," the elder called. "Back from the heights already?"
Kyle smiled warmly. "The mountains grow tiresome."
"Green Ice Kingdom's finest," someone muttered with familiarity.
Kyle dismounted near the well, greeting faces that knew him by reputation if not by blood. He listened more than he spoke.
It came out casually, as such things always did.
"Strangers passed through," a villager said. "Didn't cause trouble. But we kept our distance."
Kyle's smile didn't change. "As you do."
"A wounded man," another added. "Two women and another man with them. One of the women left with him this morning."
Silence stretched thin.
Kyle tilted his head. "And where are they staying? I'd like to apologize," he said mildly. "If someone is hurt, it reflects poorly on us all."
He chose two men to accompany him. No soldiers, no banners, just villagers.
That was what made it frightening.
Mira poured the last of the broth carefully.
Veron sat upright with effort, half his face shadowed, eyes dull but alert. Something prickled at the back of his mind—an instinct long honed.
Footsteps.
Crunching snow.
A knock. Soft. Polite.
Mira froze.
She set the bowl down slowly and went to the door.
When she opened it, the world narrowed.
Kyle stood there, snow falling behind him, expression caught between surprise and disbelief.
His gaze met Mira's, then dropped to Veron.
Recognition struck like a blade.
Kyle didn't laugh at first.
His gaze lingered on Veron—too long to be polite.
Then he laughed softly, eyes shining, and looked back at Mira—really looked this time.
Confusion. A question that cut deep.
"What's going on here?"
His eyes flicked back to Veron.
"…Wasn't he supposed to be dead?"
Veron did not move.
Did not smile.
He stared back with empty eyes.
Kyle's grin widened, sharp and delighted.
"Explain," he said lightly.
His eyes fixed on Mira.
And he waited—with dead face—as if the answer no longer mattered.