The fire didn't move much. Just small flickers licking sideways in the wind, too low to crackle, barely enough to glow. Smoke hung in the branches like an old cloth someone forgot to take down.
Lindarion stood a few paces out. Still. Hood down. Shoulders relaxed. Not hiding, but not offering anything either.
He watched the treeline, the patterns in the snow, the shift of shadows.
Behind him, someone scraped out a bowl. Metal against tin. Soft voices passed around the flame, dull and tired.
No one called to him.
'Good.'
The cold settled in slow, almost patient. It started at the boots, climbed the laces, moved up the legs like it knew the way. He let it. A little pain meant the blood still moved.
[Greater Core Recovery: 21%]
Breathing felt better. Ribs gave a little more. Whatever damage sat under the surface, it wasn't spreading.
The wind shifted. Not sharp, but colder now, dragging the scent of boiled roots and ash. Then came footsteps. Light. Close.
He didn't turn.
