Night stretched over the barbarian encampment like the skin of some ancient beast, taut and heavy with winter's breath. The last embers of the feast fires dimmed into faint glows beneath layers of ash, leaving only scattered torches to defy the darkness. The cold, no longer content with whispering, began to breathe into the world with the quietness of white death.
Kel stood alone.
He had remained long after others returned to their tents, long after the camp's revelry surrendered to silence. His companions—Reina and Landon—had each left him to his solitude without words, trusting that his stillness was not a cry for help but a ritual he refused to abandon.
He tilted his head upward.
The moon hung above the world like a silver coin placed upon the eyelids of a fallen king—bright, distant, mournful. Clouds parted briefly, almost reverently, as if allowing him one clear look before the sky chose to hide its beauty again.
Snow began to fall.
Slowly.
Not as a storm, but as a beginning.
Each flake drifted down like a thought too fragile to speak aloud.
His breath left him in a thin mist, curling past his lips and dissolving into the silver-white night. The frigid air reddened the tip of his nose and paled his cheeks, though he did not move to warm them.
He did not shiver.
He simply watched.
The first thin layer of snow collected upon his dark hair, melting then re-forming as the cold deepened. Strands of his hair, loosened from the simple tie at his nape, shifted over his face with the wind—brushing lightly against his eyes, nose, and cheek like winter itself tracing him with tentative curiosity.
His long coat—black wool with inner lining of soft, aged ivory—rippled faintly behind his back. Not dramatically, not like a hero stepping into legend, but quietly, like the wings of a fallen one remembering how to rest.
He let the silence settle into his bones.
Then, softly, he thought.
Tomorrow… we walk toward the lake.
The thought did not tremble.
But his fingers did.
Only slightly.
Hidden in his coat sleeves, his hands subtly tensed, then relaxed, as if gripping an invisible resolve. The cold bit at his joints; the familiar dull ache in his chest flickered beneath his ribs.
He closed his eyes briefly against the wind.
I should sleep now.
Snowflakes landed upon his eyelashes. He exhaled through parted lips, air escaping in a gentle, resigned cloud.
His body felt tired—not just from the feast, from the poem recited, from the eyes that had watched him like he was not a boy but a spark—but from carrying a purpose that resisted definition.
The lake.
Scarder Lake.
Said to cure the incurable. Said to swallow those unworthy.
He felt the edge of a smile touch his lips—not joy, not hope, something quieter. Recognition.
Whether it heals or kills… that is a question I can only ask once.
He opened his eyes.
The moon, haloed in frozen mist, reflected faintly in them.
…the moon is really, really magnificent in this slow snow.
The way he phrased it, in his mind, was not poetic. It was genuine, unfiltered. Almost childlike.
Maybe that is why winter listens.
He lowered his gaze, just slightly, watching as his footprints slowly filled with white. Behind him, the camp lay still—tents shaped like hunched beasts, fur and leather stitched with history. The barbarians slept deeply; their dreams likely filled with hunts, battles, survival.
He envied them, briefly.
Not for their strength.
But for the simplicity of their reason to endure.
His own reason remained elusive.
But the path still called.
Kel straightened, drawing his coat closed with a controlled motion. His hair fell softly against his cheek; he swept it back with gentle fingers, not wiping snow away, simply acknowledging it.
He turned.
His boots crunched lightly against frost-touched earth. Each step was deliberate, measured—not slow, but aware. The snow thickened as he walked, falling with the serene inevitability of a story continuing whether its protagonist is ready or not.
As he passed one tent, a soft stirring within suggested someone had been awake, watching. A shadow shifted—the silhouette of Landon, still seated, like a sentinel carved from mountain stone.
Kel did not look in his direction.
But his steps softened slightly.
As he passed the next row of tents, a faint dip in the cloth of one tent's entrance betrayed a figure standing just inside—Reina, cloak drawn around her shoulders. Her head bowed, perhaps in prayer. Perhaps in silent strength.
Kel did not pause.
But his expression eased, almost imperceptibly.
He reached his own tent. The entrance flap—simple, worn canvas with reinforced stitching—fluttered as the wind caught it. The shadows inside were deep, pooled like quiet ink on parchment.
He stood before it for a moment.
Listening.
Not to the camp.
Not to the wind.
To the echo of his own thoughts.
Tomorrow.
His fingers touched the tent flap. The leather thongs tying it closed were stiff from cold; he worked them slowly, patient even in exhaustion.
We walk toward the lake.
The curse at his core pulsed once—sharp, fleeting.
He inhaled. The pain passed.
Let tomorrow come.
He stepped inside.
The tent was dim, lit only by the faintest moonlight filtering through tiny stitching gaps in the canvas. His cloak surrendered its snow to the heated air, droplets fading into warmth.
He removed his coat with controlled motion, folding it across a low stool. Beneath it, his clothing was simple—linen shirt, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His skin was pale, marked by faint traces of old strain along his wrists, the evidence of will exceeding physical limits.
His hair, freed from snow, fell forward as he leaned to set his boots aside. They were scuffed, worn. Like him. But still serviceable.
He sat at the edge of his bedroll.
Closed his eyes.
Listened to the faint hiss of wind against tent walls.
Then spoke aloud—barely above a whisper.
"…Tomorrow."
It was not a vow.
Not a statement.
It was simply an acknowledgement.
He lay down, careful not to stress his chest, one hand resting lightly over his heart—not for comfort, but to feel its rhythm, measure its defiance.
Outside, snow continued to fall.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Like a lullaby made of winter's acceptance.
Kel breathed once.
Twice.
His eyes closed.
And sleep took him—not gently.
But with the kindness it reserves for those who do not ask for it.