Steam thinned as the lift settled. Cold air came in first—pine and loam, a clean cut through noses used to stone. Someone had hung a kettle from a camp hook; the steam from it drifted and caught the morning like a soft flag. Wind came over the ridge with metal and sap in it. It smelled like hammers in a forest.
Rodion's board dimmed itself in Mikhailis's hand. Green dots blinked to the lip. Modest orange shaded where even daylight carried small teeth. At the bottom the breath ribbon rose and fell, crooked and stubborn.
Never promised. He hid a smile and slipped the device deep into his coat, palm staying to feel its small heat. No one else needed to see it.
