A sudden gust tore down the ridge, snapping his hood back and whipping his hair into his face. The cold hit like claws—a beast sinking teeth into his neck, stabbing under his collar.
Collin swore under his breath and yanked the hood back into place. Fingers stiff, he shoved his hair out of his eyes, tucked it beneath the wool, and pulled the fur-lined collar tighter. The wind was relentless, needling into every gap in his clothing like it was trying to find skin to punish.
He turned his face away from the worst of it, eyes squeezed shut against the sting, and waited. A few heartbeats. A long, hissing breath.
After the Autumn Celebration, Collin fell into a bout of despair. Classes had ended for the season, giving him little reason to go into town. He kept himself busy—mulching the garden for the upcoming frost, reinforcing various parts of the cabin, hunting and smoking meat, put in new rabbit fur lining for his cloak and winter boots, and even tried his hand at refurbishing an old dresser, but he ended up giving the project to Nic. He had long ago learned to escape into books, but the new novel, beloved old classics, his parents' writings—he still couldn’t outrun his thoughts.
There were days—whole stretches of them—when he didn’t speak to a single soul. Before the snow set in, Aries would come and go, often with Hadria or some other friend in tow, filling the house with voices and footsteps. But Collin had no appetite for company. He kept to his room, let the hours slip past like falling snow. He slept at odd times, read by candlelight, scribbled thoughts into the margins of old papers. The routine was unhealthy, and he knew it. He simply didn’t care.
One afternoon, he awoke to a sharp pounding at his bedroom door.
“Collin! God, are you alive in there?”
He dragged himself up and opened the door, squinting into the hallway’s pale light. Aries stood there—hair disheveled, face pale, fists clenched at his sides.
“You haven’t come out in a week,” he snapped. “I thought you were dead!”
Collin blinked, slowly surfacing from the fog of sleep. “I’ve been eating... late at night,” he said. “I refill the water. Empty the pot. I’m not dead, just... not in the mood for breakfast conversations.”
It took a little more coaxing, but eventually, Aries was satisfied—relieved, even. Once assured Collin wasn’t buried under a pile of quilts, he let him return to his silence.
Once winter fully settled in, Hadria’s presence at the cabin became nearly constant. Her relationship with Aries had reached its next stage—more physical, more intense, the kind of closeness that blurred boundaries and claimed space. She began leaving more of her belongings in his drawers, in the sitting room, by the hearth. Eventually, she might as well have moved in.
For Collin, it meant there was nowhere to hide.
Nights became difficult. The walls were thin. The lovers’ whispered affection, their laughter, and their lovemaking—all of it spilled into his space like smoke under a door. At first, he stuffed his ears, pulled blankets over his head, tried not to hear. Eventually, he stopped noticing. Or pretended to.
Daylight brought no greater peace. Hadria had a way of studying him like a map, always trying to uncover what direction his thoughts were heading. The less he shared, the more she probed, and the more she probed, the more he withdrew. He began leaving the house for long stretches of time—claiming errands, seeking peace, or simply walking until the cold dulled everything inside him.
In the quiet hours, his thoughts sometimes drifted toward the shifting culture outside their isolated home. Across Crimisa, touched by sailors from the Blue Isles, a quiet revolution was taking shape. It wasn’t just about marriage anymore. Women were speaking more openly about desire, about choosing pleasure instead of duty. Even amongst his circle of friends, the air had changed.
He remembered the book Nic had gotten from Helen—written by a woman from the Blue Isles and meant, originally, for women. But the boys passed it secretly amongst themselves,wide-eyed and whispering, the way people do when something feels both sacred and forbidden. Its pages were full of truths no one had taught them, sketched with grace and clarity. Even Collin found himself quietly taking notes in his mind, storing away thoughts he didn’t yet know how to use.
But none of it prepared Collin for the loneliness of living beside a couple in love. None of it told him what to do with the aching silence that crept in when the door shut and the room fell dark. He wasn’t jealous, just displaced.
Lately, he had taken up a reckless habit—seeing how far he could get before exhaustion or the storm forced him back.
Twice now, he’d barely made it home before a storm hit—once escaping just as heavy snow rolled in, and another time waiting out the blizzard in the North Town Chapple with a doctor and a stray dog. Even two days ago, he’d turned back just in time near Stargazer Creek.
It was foolish, of course—testing winter’s mercy like this, but he wasn’t wandering aimlessly. He knew exactly who he wanted to see. He kept trying, again and again, hoping the snow would hold off, it never did, but today felt different—more urgent, more final.
The wind finally quieted, its sharp fingers loosening from his collar. Collin turned north, angling down the slope, snow crunching beneath each heavy step. His arms moved in rhythm, pumping low at his sides, cloak dragging like a reluctant shadow. Frost had started to gather along the fur trim of his hood, weaving silver into the edges.
His muscles ached, but he welcomed the burn. It kept him present. Kept him from thinking too much. There was a strange comfort in the cold—like the mountain didn’t care who he was or what he'd lost. It just asked for movement. Endurance. Breath.
And so he gave it.
Every time the wind bit at his face, every time his boot sank deeper than expected, something inside him braced. Not with fear, but with stubbornness. The worse the conditions, the more tightly that quiet fire in his chest seemed to hold.
Maybe that was the point. Maybe this was the kind of trial the gods still honored—not ceremony, not sacrifice, but the private kind. The kind where no one watched. Just a man, the snow, and the silence. Nothing left but his will.
A stag stepped out from the snow-heavy shrubs without a sound—tall, lean, its flanks dusted with frost. Collin froze mid-step. He hadn’t heard a thing.
Normally, he might have reached for his bow. A beast that size could feed him for weeks. The hide could be tanned, the bones used, the meat smoked and saved. But he hadn’t come to hunt today. He hadn’t come for anything, really—only to walk.
So he stood still and watched.
The stag was bare-headed, his antlers long since shed, leaving his crown smooth and strange. Winter had stripped him down like everything else. Still, he held his ground, studying Collin with eyes that felt too knowing. Like he recognized something in him. Something familiar.
