The storm doesn’t leave us alone.

  Every day, the camp tries to move, but it gets colder. The beasts pulling the carts slow down, needing more healing. Jean and I try to work together to help them, even as his grandma stares daggers into my back. I pointedly ignore her, trying to make sure the animal can walk again, that the skin below its fur is warm enough to stay healthy.

  I can see its breath misting in the air, and the way it looks into my eyes. It knows it’s dying. It knows. And I can’t abide by that.

  “Jean, I will be using more mana than before on this. Can you demonstrate your skill for me one more time? I will have to [Observe] it, though,” I tell him.

  Isabelle, his grandma, hisses slightly. “Don’t show off your skill recklessly, Jean.”

  “Can you save it?” he asks, gritting his teeth.

  I nod, confidently. “Yes,” I answer.

  Without hesitation, the barrier around him lowers, and he weaves his skill. I watch, I [Observe], even as my breath mists in the freezing air and thick globs of sleet pelt down from above, covering the ground in snowy slush.

  The mana weaves in beautiful, pale blue patterns, interlocking circles and sparkling pathways winding around one another. It’s a gentle, kind skill, borne out of a desire to help, to amend all ailments.

  It’s so very different from my approach, and yet so useful.

  My healing skill is jagged and precise, a scalpel where he uses a bandaid. They are both useful for different things, and adding to my toolbox is important. So, as he holds the magic in place, letting me study it, I learn. And then, at the end, I [Deconstruct] it one more time.

  Yes, that’ll work.

  [Biological Restoration 8 > 9]

  My skill changes as I alter it in front of my inner eye. I add flourishes where I can, little feelers to help the magic “stick” better, adding circles and lines to the edges of the pattern to soften it a bit, sort of. The mana takes shape, and a moment later, the skill activates, gold-white energy streaming towards the beast.

  It’s not enough.

  I open my vessel up properly, no longer conserving my mana in case of an attack. I’d never gone below three quarters full, and now I do. Instead of spending the amount I regenerate, I simply pour a torrent of power into the skill, its improved shape easily taking the increase in energy and pouring more gold towards the animal.

  And then, the spell hits.

  A torrent of gold pours into the creature, and I can see it infuse below the skin, making its fur more lustrous, making its heart thump again, warming its blood. The fatigue in its muscles fades as they knit themselves back together, and the magic lingers. Those sticky feelers make sure that no energy goes to waste, and the overly large amount of mana I put in feeds the animal, keeping the cold at bay.

  Then I direct it at the most egregious wounds, and faint bits of frostbite clear away as easily as dirt in the rain. The skin simply regenerates, pale flakes dropping to the floor and joining the snow as if they had always been there.

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  I see the way the creature looks at me. It knows I saved it. Very gently, I reach out. It’s a little like a mammoth crossed with a bison, sporting a curled, wrinkly nose, tiny tusks, and a handful of small horns from its thick skull. I slowly push a hand through its fur, feeling it hum with power.

  Beneath my touch, the animal huffs and presses against my hand. Its skin is warm. I feel faint bits of magic in the fur - almost as if it’s showing me something. A tiny, ephemeral trickle of essence passes into me in that moment.

  Did… it use a request to show thanks? I look at the creature for a few long, agonising seconds, and it huffs again, shoving my hand aside. Then, it rises up to its legs and continues trotting along, rubbing up against another bison-mammoth pulling the same cart.

  “You’re smiling again,” Jean says. I look at him and see the bright grin he flashes me, even as his grandmother grumbles about secrecy and haggles the beast tamer for more payment.

  Instead of any great reply, I just give a small, amused huff, and an exaggerated shrug. What does he want me to do, be annoyed? Jean laughs at me for a moment, and I consider ruffling his hair. I only consider it, though.

  - - -

  More days pass, and the cold gets ever colder.

  Frost starts gathering at the sides of the wagons by now. The wheels, made of wood and metal, start creaking and degrading from ice in their joints. More and more, Bay needs to head out, wrapped in cloak and blankets, sometimes even carrying some of Jess’ and my warming-cube things, to fix stuff.

  The nights are cold and icy. Most of the time, the defenders just huddle indoors, staring out the flaps of the enchanted wagons, hoping to catch a glimpse of any fogfae before they attack. But there’s nothing but dreadful silence and icy cold.

  But I know the mist is thicker now. I sit inside, watching as tendrils of that ethereal energy try to pass into our space, and are taken apart by the caged flames we have positioned all around the entrance. Dozens of runes cover the walls, the blankets, even our clothing, and yet, the icy cold invades.

  It bites its way through there, and I can feel even Kuro shiver inside my shadow. Sometimes, I can see that rim of darkness cast by me reach out towards the fires. It’s a bizarre sight, but I don’t let it distract me.

  There’s something coming. I refuse to be caught off guard, so I keep enchanting, weaving, and preparing. We will be ready. We will.

  - - -

  Norman, Inu and Tatch are out the most - Norman as a messenger, and Inu and Thatch because they can take the cold. Amelie huddles by the fires a lot, especially making sure her legs stay warm. She sometimes looks at my missing arm and bites her lips in conflict.

  I work on my healing and my enchanting, mainly. By now, I know which abilities in the camp I can siphon mana from without too much trouble, and which ones are necessary. Some heat other houses, some are used on the crops, and others again are simply too noticeable if I were to mess with them.

  No more items go missing, either. No one starts trouble with us. It is simply too cold. When we have excess mana, Jess makes Sylves hand out our little “beacons” as she’s taken to calling the cubes filled with fire.

  Of course, there are strings attached. Otherwise, Inu would give them away, not Sylves. But that’s okay. It’s just insurance - we don’t activate any of the negative impacts of her ability. To everyone in the camp, it really is just freely given assistance, and they thank us with hastily stammered words from freezing lips.

  Norman comes back often and warms up. I sometimes step out, with a thick coat of [Suppression] keeping the cold away. I breathe out, and despite the blankets, despite the skills, despite the fires burning in a half dozen mana cubes around me, I can feel the cold air trying to freeze the saliva in my mouth. I stare into the mist, waiting for an attack, trying to look through the thick sleet, but there’s nothing but white.

  It’s endlessly cold. So cold that I know what the news will be.

  The sixteenth day on the second floor comes as the sun rises. Its rays don’t make it through the icy fog. And captain Malcolm announces that the crops have frozen.

  There won’t be any new meals until the storm is over.