The Place Between Worlds

The snap of timber was followed by a cry—raw, strained. Not Edrin. Eldan.

"His leg! Help!"

But Vince couldn't run.

He stood near the edge of the wreckage, breath ragged in his throat, legs barely holding under the fever's weight. His hand clenched tight on the walking stick, his knuckles pale. Snow blew sideways, stinging his face. All he could do was watch.

Then a younger man—tall, dark-haired, maybe twenty—rushed in without hesitation. Vince didn't know his name. One of the hunters, maybe. He ducked low, took Eldan's outstretched hand, and together they heaved the fallen beam just enough to let Edrin's body slide free.

Edrin groaned as they dragged him back through the snow, leaving a ragged trail. His leg—bent wrong, already swelling.

But he was alive.

Vince exhaled. Slow. Shaky.

And something inside him twisted.

Not from pain. From memory.

---

Naples. Years ago.

The car had flipped twice.

Lucia had screamed—he still remembered that sound, clearer than anything else. Elena had been in the back, asleep in her car seat. He'd opened his eyes to the smell of leaking fuel and his own blood pooling across the dash.

Couldn't move.

Couldn't even shout.

Then—hands.

Marco.

Pulling open the bent door, cursing the whole time. "You stubborn bastard," Marco had muttered, dragging him out through broken glass. "You were supposed to stop when I yelled."

Vince remembered the sky—gray and full of ash from the riots the night before.

And Marco's face above him.

"You don't die here," Marco had said. "Not like this. Not without fixing it first."

---

Vince blinked the memory away.

The snow was falling thicker now. The wind cut deeper.

But Edrin was alive.

Because someone had moved.

Not Vince.

Someone else.

And it had been enough.

He leaned heavier on the stick. His fever made his vision swim, but he stayed upright. The boy beside him—same one who helped him walk—was watching. Eyes wide. Waiting.

Vince grunted. Forced the words through cracked lips.

"Check… the others."

The boy nodded and ran.

Edrin had survived. Barely.

But next time?

Next time they might not be lucky.

And the snow was only just beginning.

Inside one of the sturdier huts—patched hastily with bark and layered moss—Edrin lay on a bed of straw and bundled cloth. The fire crackled low beside him, steam rising from his soaked clothes. His leg had been wrapped tight with strips of linen and bark splints. Eldan sat beside him, his hands still shaking.

The hunter who helped—his name was Tomas, Vince would later learn—knelt by Edrin's side, murmuring quiet things in the local tongue. Edrin barely responded, but his hand gripped Tomas's wrist like a man gripping a ledge.

Others filled the room. A young woman brought heated water. Another carried in dried roots. Joran stood at the threshold, clutching an armful of reeds for patching.

No one was idle. No one shouted orders.

They moved around each other with a quiet rhythm born not of command—but of care.

Vince watched from the side, his body heavy with fever, propped against the wall like half a ghost. His limbs throbbed. His breath stung. But his eyes were sharp.

They should have been afraid.

Of the snow. Of the broken hut. Of the elder's injury.

But they weren't frozen by it.

They moved because of it.

Vince had seen this before—but twisted. In Naples, people moved because of fear. Because if they didn't, something worse would find them. His men—his family—had followed him because the world outside was sharper than the world he ruled.

But this village?

These people moved not because they feared each other.

But because they couldn't bear to watch someone suffer alone.

And it hit him in the gut.

That ache.

That old, deep ache he hadn't named in years.

Not when he'd lost Marco.

Not when he'd buried Lucia and Elena.

Not even when the gates of the prison closed behind him.

It was here now, wordless and sharp.

He'd spent years building a kingdom of silence, loyalty, and survival.

But none of it had ever looked like this.

Not really.

He pressed a hand to his chest and closed his eyes, just for a moment.

Not to sleep.

Just to breathe.

Because this wasn't his world.

But maybe…

He didn't have to keep standing on the edge of it.

The wind didn't stop that night.

It rose and fell like breath—never enough to break things apart, but just enough to whisper through every crack, every weak spot in the walls. It tugged at the edges of roofs. It rattled loose thatch. It reminded them: winter wasn't waiting anymore.

Inside the fire hut, Vince sat wrapped in two layers of reed mat and wool, a damp rag pressed to his chest. His fever had eased, but not left. His skin felt both hot and cold. When he shifted too fast, the world tilted.

But he was listening.

He always listened, even when the words didn't come clear.

Outside, someone called in the local tongue. Then silence. Then running footsteps.

Then Eldan appeared in the doorway.

No knock. No ceremony. Just snow clinging to his shoulders and urgency in his movements. He stepped quickly to the fire and knelt, pulling something from under his coat—damp bark, scribbled on with soot and ash.

Vince leaned forward.

Seven symbols. Seven huts.

Eldan pointed at them, then slashed three with his finger. Left four untouched.

Vince's stomach tightened.

He didn't need translation.

They couldn't finish them all.

He pointed at the three marked huts, then shook his head. Then tapped the four remaining. His fingers curled into a fist. Sturdy. Secure.

Eldan nodded slowly, eyes down.

But Vince wasn't done.

He pointed at the entire row of marks again. Then spread his hands wide, as if gathering them. He pulled his palms inward, forming a bowl shape. His eyes searched Eldan's face.

Bring them together.

Eldan's brow furrowed.

So Vince leaned forward, slowly. He drew one square in the dirt with his thumb. Larger. Broader. Not a hut. A hall.

He mimed wind again—whipping across his face. Shivering arms. Then a single roof above many.

Understanding flickered.

Eldan sat back, staring.

Then he pointed at the big square. "One."

Vince nodded. Held up one shaking finger. "One."

Eldan rubbed his chin, thinking. Then rose and began pacing the edge of the fire pit. He muttered softly to himself in the village tongue, words Vince couldn't catch—but tone told enough.

Calculations. Concerns. Doubt. And finally—resolve.

He turned back, placed his hand flat on the dirt beside Vince's drawing.

"Big hut. Many sleep," Eldan said.

"Yes," Vince murmured. "Warm."

Eldan looked toward the door.

Then back at Vince.

"Not enough wood," he said.

Vince didn't reply. Instead, he pressed his palm to his chest.

Then mimed tearing something down.

Eldan frowned.

Vince pointed to his chest again. Then made the bowl motion—pulling people in.

Then, deliberately, he raised three fingers.

The three huts they couldn't finish.

Eldan's eyes widened slightly.

"You want... take old huts?"

Vince nodded. "They die if not."

A long silence.

Then Eldan said, quietly, "Old hut become new hut."

Vince managed a hoarse breath. Almost a laugh. "Yes."

Eldan moved to the fire, placed one more log on the flame. His hands were shaking now—not from fear, but from knowing what came next. It wasn't just building anymore. It was choosing what to let go.

He stood, looked once at Vince, and said: "We tell others. Tomorrow. Early."

"Tomorrow," Vince echoed. Then leaned back into his blanket.

The wind outside picked up again. A high whine. A child's voice shouted something distant. Somewhere, a roof thudded under the weight of snow.

Eldan paused at the door.

"Veshan," he said. "You… no build tomorrow?"

Vince smiled tiredly, shook his head.

"You build," he said, tapping Eldan's chest.

Then touched his own heart.

"I… guide."

Eldan stood straighter at that. Like the words had weight. He gave a slow, solemn nod. Then disappeared into the snow.

Vince lay back against the wall, bones aching, throat dry, but mind sharp.

Only four huts could be saved.

But maybe one big one could save the rest.

The storm wouldn't wait.

So neither could they.