The wind whispered like ancestral lament, dragging threads of frost across the barbarian encampment. Braziers crackled beneath stretched hide canopies, their flames etched in ochre and blood-red glow, casting silhouettes that wavered like spirits summoned to feast upon mortality.
It was past midnight when the laughter faded and the scent of roasted winter-beast thinned among the tents. The last echo of Kel's voice lingered in the air like embers refusing to die—his poem, quiet yet fierce, had carved itself into the hearts around him.
And whenever silence came, so did the weight of his existence.
Two figures stood awake when even the stars hid behind clouds.
One was wrapped in a fur-lined cloak of midnight blue—Reina Asheville. The other, draped in barbaric furs that looked almost grown from her pallid skin—Sera, the White-Haired Chief.
Side by side, they watched the young traveler known to most only as Heral. He sat alone at the edge of the campfire's dying warmth, a faint silhouette beneath dimmed stars, shoulders drawn inward as though carrying winter itself.
-Reina POV-
The night was bitter, yet the air around him felt colder.
Reina exhaled softly, breath turning silver in the moonlit dark.
He looks… small from here. A quiet irony. Kel von Rosenfeld—no, Heral, his chosen false name—had eyes that made even warriors avert their gaze. Eyes of someone who had lived too long in too little time.
She pulled the cloak tighter around her—white wolf fur over muted leather, hair tied simply, strands loosened by wind. Her fingers trembled, not from cold, but from the echo of his words.
Winter says: "Die quietly." You answer: "We'll feast first."
He had spoken that line with a half-smile. The kind of smile one makes when death is no longer an unfamiliar guest, but an evening companion.
Her steps were silent as she approached him—carefully, like approaching a wounded animal wary of hands, even gentle ones.
Kel did not look up, but Reina felt his awareness settle upon her.
"…The stars dim tonight," she murmured.
He nodded once, the faintest motion. "They tire of watching mortals bleed themselves against time."
She sat beside him, but not too close. Respecting that small distance he always kept between himself and the world.
His clothes were plain, travel-worn—dark wool tunic, linen shirt beneath, sleeves rolled just above his wrists. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet his fingers were pressed together—a habit she learned meant his chest hurt.
"And yet," she said softly, "you chose to make them listen tonight."
Kel turned then. Just enough that the firelight brushed the edge of his eyes. There was exhaustion in them. And quiet defiance.
"Even when winter takes all… someone must speak," he whispered.
Reina watched his lips form words that weighed more than swords. Her heart thudded dully. He speaks like someone ready to die… and yet unwilling to stop walking.
Silence settled once more. Her thoughts, however, did not.
He carries his pain like a king hides his crown—beneath the helm, unseen, yet always pressing down.
And tonight, Reina understood something she had not before.
Kel did not fear death.
He feared insignificance.
"…I will walk beside you," she whispered, not looking at him.
He did not respond.
But his hand, resting loosely upon his knee, opened—not to take, not to accept, but to show that he had heard.
It was enough.
-Sera POV-
From the shadows between tents, Sera watched them.
Her pale hair spilled like snow down her shoulders, glowing faintly beneath moonlight. The curse etched along her spine pulsed—a soft luminescent blue under tribal ink that wrapped her arms.
She did not approach immediately.
Barbarians were taught not to disturb another's silent war.
But Sera was not merely chieftess tonight—she was a woman witnessing the moment two souls touched, without ever reaching.
Reina walked away finally, shoulders tight, her steps trying not to show urgency.
Kel remained. Still. Profoundly alone.
Sera moved. Each step soundless across frost-bitten earth.
She stopped before him, folding down into a seated position opposite the dying fire. No greeting. Barbarians did not use words when silence spoke clearer.
Kel glanced at her. A minimal tilt of his head.
"You recited as though the words were not meant for us," she spoke at last, voice low, ancient. "But for something listening beyond."
Kel's gaze dropped to the ashes. "Was I wrong to do so?"
Sera's lips curved—not quite a smile, but near. "No. Only those who were born under winter skies recognize when the night listens."
Her cloak shifted, revealing fur stitched with bone patterns. A symbol of leadership—it looked heavy upon her thin frame.
"You remind me of a boy I once knew," she continued. "He believed surviving was enough."
"And?" Kel asked.
"He died quietly."
Kel's eyes narrowed slightly—not defensively, but contemplative.
Sera leaned forward. The fire's last embers flickered beneath the intensity of her gaze.
"Survival is not enough," she murmured. "Telling the world why you survived… that is what leaves scars in history."
The wind sighed between them. Kel inhaled slowly, chest rising with effort, then spoke:
"I do not seek to be remembered."
Sera shook her head.
"You lie to yourself more often than you lie to others."
His jaw tightened. Not with anger. With the recognition that someone had stepped too close.
"You walk as if you have already chosen to die," she said gently, "yet every word you speak tonight tells me you wish to live long enough to matter."
Kel looked away.
Sera reached forward—not touching him but hovering her hand over his, as though offering warmth without taking away dignity.
"When winter comes," she said, "and the lake freezes… we will walk it together. If the ice breaks beneath your feet—I will not pull you out."
Kel's eyes met hers. A flicker of surprise.
"I will walk beside you," she finished, "not ahead—never behind. If you fall, know it will be because you chose a path worth dying for."
A long silence followed.
Then Kel nodded once. Slowly.
And for the first time that night—
Sera saw not the boy who had recited a poem.
She saw the man beneath the weight of winter.
Reina Later That Night
Reina lay awake in her tent, fingers curled around her blanket.
He did not refuse me.
The fire outside crackled faintly.
'He heard me.'
Her eyes closed.
I will walk beside him—even if the path is made of broken ice.
Sera Later That Night
Sera stood beneath the sky, watching clouds drift.
He does not carry a curse, she thought.
He carries decision.
The wind lifted her hair.
May the lake judge us worthy.
Kel Alone
Kel remained by the fire after both women had gone.
He looked at his hand—the one that had opened beside Reina… the one Sera hovered hers over.
Then he looked up at the stars.
"I still walk alone," he whispered.
"…but tonight… I am not the only one awake."
The wind did not answer.
But the stars… dim as they were…
seemed to listen.