It will have to do.
I push through the undergrowth, duck beneath the rocky lip, and drop into a crouch. The space is cramped, but deep enough that I can curl up. The stone at my back is already cold.
I’m just about to step out again to go collect some dry branches and attempt to build a fire pit when it hits me.
I don’t have flint and steel with me.
Jax carried ours with him. He was the one to handle the fire pit every night.
Oh gods. I’m going to freeze to death with no fire or furs. Slowly, I sink against the stone and pull my knees into my chest.
Night falls fast in the mountains.
Once darkness settles in full, the forest changes again. Sounds carry farther. A crack of a twig in the distance makes my hand fly to my blade. Wind moving through the branches sounds like whispers.
But worse is the cold.
Gods, the cold.
Without the fur blankets or the warmth of Jax’s body, it seeps into me from every direction. Through my boots, my leathers. I sit with my knees drawn to my chest.
It’s as if my bones are made of ice.
I stare at the dark thicket and try not to think about the empty space beside me.
I greatly underestimated how much load Jax has been carrying all this time. While I was distracted, focused on the goal…he’s been practical.
He would have chosen a better camp before dusk instead of letting anger drag him blindly through the trees.
He would have noticed I left without supplies before I’d made it ten steps into the forest.
He always gathered more wood than we needed. He built fires that burned hot and long. He always made sure food appeared in my hands before I realized I was hungry.
My chest aches not because I miss him. It’s because I’m sitting here cold in the dark because I was careless and allowed my anger to cast aside an advantage.
As I shiver bad enough my teeth clatter, I hold on to that thought as tightly as I can.
When the night deepens, and the temperature drops further, there’s a moment where I slip. Half delirious, shivering so hard my teeth ache, I reach instinctively towards the empty stretch of ground beside me, seeking warmth that isn’t there.
My eyes snap open immediately.
A curse slips past my lips.
I pull away from the emptiness as if it has burned me and press my spine harder into the stone.
Get a fucking grip, I curse myself.
It’s my path to walk. I must deal with it.
There must be…must be a way to warm myself. I’m a Decarios, for fuck’s sake.
Desperately, I reach into the haze of memory, searching for old training from Wetra. Winter drills. Endurance trials in the northern passes. Long hours in the snow up to our knees while Dad barked at us to stop whining and master our own damn bodies.
A memory surfaces slowly, blurred by exhaustion.
Your breath is a weapon if you know how to wield it. Dad’s voice rings in my mind.
I sit up straighter beneath the stone overhang and force my stiff fingers to unclench. Then, I draw in one deep breath through my nose. Another. And another. Slow at first. Measured. I fill my lungs until my ribs ache, then let the air go in controlled bursts.
