The Place Between Worlds

The ice came like knives.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the wind stopped howling and started screaming. Snow turned to shards—sleet and frozen rain pelting down hard enough to snap branches. The world outside went white, not from light, but from the endless hammering of ice.

Inside the shelter, Vince sat upright against the packed wall, wrapped in two thick pelts and a wool shawl someone had silently draped over his legs. His fever had broken, but his strength hadn't returned. Every time the wind shifted, the hut creaked. Someone—he couldn't tell who—whispered prayers.

Children whimpered. Mothers held them tight. Elders dozed fitfully, backs curled to the cold.

Eldan didn't sleep.

He sat near the entrance flap, staff in hand, eyes on the cracks where snow tried to force its way through. Every hour or so, he adjusted the seal, pressed reeds tighter, reinforced slats. Vince watched him work with quiet precision. No panic. No fear. Just care.

Time crawled.

Vince didn't dream. He just watched—faces lit by flickers of fire, shadows bending across bundled bodies, the occasional gust shaking loose a fine spray of frost through the gaps.

But the walls held.

Morning came, not with sunshine, but with silence.

The wind had died.

When Vince finally stood—shakily, helped by Joran—he pulled back a reed flap and peeked outside.

The world was glass.

Trees coated in silver. Snow crusted over with a frozen sheen. The village was still—too still—but it was there. Standing.

The huts had survived.

Smoke rose from a few other chimneys. Signs of life.

He let out a slow breath.

The shelters had held. Just barely.

They had made it through the night.

Now came the real test: what was left.

The sun barely broke through the clouded sky. Pale light shimmered on frost-crusted branches. The storm had passed, but ice still clung to everything—slick, jagged, and cold. Vince sat near the entrance of the main shelter, wrapped in furs, a stick beside him. His body still ached, his breath shallow but steady.

He could move. Slowly. But he couldn't build.

Not today.

The village, however, had already begun.

Teenagers—older boys and girls—were gathered at the edge of the broken huts. One of them, a broad-shouldered teen named Lorin, pointed toward a collapsed wall. "This," he said in the local tongue, simple and clear, "fix now."

Another teen, Maela, held up reeds and rope, nodding. She directed a few others toward a pile of bark that had been gathered before the storm.

It wasn't chaos.

It was momentum.

Eldan stood beside Vince, arms crossed, watching. He leaned over and murmured, "They learn. From you."

Vince didn't reply. Just gave a slow nod. He gestured weakly toward a hut whose roof sagged on one side. Eldan relayed the message in their language, pointing, explaining. The teens adjusted their plan.

Joran and Anelka, small and bundled in furs, sat near the fire pit. The girl was tying small lengths of rope—too small for a roof, but useful for bindings. Joran was carefully stacking smooth stones beside her.

Helping. Watching.

Not in charge—but learning.

Vince coughed once, wiped his mouth, then shifted his weight to sit straighter.

He could see it now—how they moved, how they worked. Not because someone barked orders. Not out of fear.

They moved because they wanted to keep each other safe.

Because they cared.

Not like Naples.

Not like the cold obedience of his old life.

This was different.

Maela passed close to him, arms full of woven thatch. She paused briefly, looked him in the eyes, then touched her chest with a flat palm.

"Veshan," she said quietly. "You rest."

Vince gave her a tired smile. "You build."

She nodded once, then ran back to join the others.

Eldan crouched near Vince, watching the movement. "They no need you much now," he said with a faint grin.

Vince nodded. "Good."

They didn't need a boss.

They were becoming something stronger.

A village that stood up for itself.

And he would help in whatever way he could—words, signs, memories.

Even if his hands couldn't lift the walls anymore.

Later that day, after most of the rebuilding had quieted and smoke curled from repaired hearths, Vince took the walking stick and slowly made his way to the far end of the main shelter. The wind had calmed, but the cold still clung to the bones of the earth.

Eldan walked beside him without speaking. They both knew where he was going.

Past the fire circle. Past the sloped bark walls patched just yesterday. To the quiet corner where Edrin rested—wrapped in layered pelts, leg bound with reeds and bark splints. His eyes were open, watching the firelight dance across the ceiling.

Beside him sat the matriarch.

She was old—older than even Eldan—with silver-threaded braids and a face that had weathered more winters than most would survive. She had been there when Vince first arrived. Silent. Watching.

She didn't speak now, either. Just looked up as Vince entered.

He paused at the doorway, then nodded once.

She returned the nod.

Eldan gestured, made a slow swirl with his hand—peace, or maybe friend. Then he stepped back, letting Vince enter alone.

Vince crouched down beside Edrin, breath shallow.

Edrin's face was pale, but not in pain. His hand lifted, slow.

"Veshan," he rasped.

Vince offered a faint smile. Tapped his own chest.

"Yes. Veshan."

Then he pointed at Edrin's leg. Tilted his head in question.

Edrin held up one finger. "Bad." Then held up two fingers. "But… not dead."

Vince huffed softly. Almost a laugh. He nodded, then tapped the ground beside Edrin's mat.

Strong.

Still here.

The matriarch shifted slightly. She looked at Vince with calm eyes, then pointed at the ceiling. At the structure above them.

She made a sweeping motion, then tapped her palm flat. Like walls holding.

Then she touched Edrin's hand.

Then Vince's.

Her meaning was clear.

This shelter held. You helped it hold.

Vince didn't reply. He just nodded once.

She leaned forward slightly, reached into a pouch at her waist, and pulled something out—a small stone charm, worn smooth, strung on braided twine.

She held it out to him.

A gift.

Vince hesitated.

Then accepted it with both hands.

He bowed his head, low.

"Thank you," he whispered.

The matriarch reached out and gently pressed her hand against his cheek for a moment. Warm, rough, maternal.

Then she turned back to Edrin.

Vince stood slowly, pain flaring in his side. But something else warmed in his chest. Not pride. Not obligation.

Belonging.

As he limped out, Eldan waited for him by the door. Vince held up the charm.

Eldan nodded. "She say… you part of hearth now."

Vince looked down at it.

A stone. Nothing more.

And everything.

As the wind picked up again outside, a memory surfaced—dim and worn. Naples. Years ago.

A night after a street ambush gone wrong. Vince bleeding. Too proud to call for help. But Luca, his old bodyguard, had dragged him behind a deli and stitched him up anyway.

> "You protect us. Let us protect you," Luca had muttered.

Vince hadn't answered then.

He did now—softly, to the cold wind outside.

"Okay."