The Place Between Worlds

The fire had burned down to nothing but a dull glow when Vince woke. No one spoke. Breath fogged the air. Movement was slow, deliberate. Even coughing was done quietly now, as if sound itself risked stirring the cold gods watching from the trees.

Branik stood near the storage wall, arms crossed tight against the chill, speaking in a low voice with Eldan. Vince couldn't hear every word—but he didn't need to.

Eldan turned toward him, met his eyes, and gave a single nod.

They were out of time.

Vince sat up with a grunt, wincing at the soreness deep in his back and ribs. Eldan helped him to his feet without asking, guiding him with a steady hand outside the main shelter.

The cold was sharp and dry, like broken glass in the lungs.

They didn't go far. Just to the side alcove, half-covered with bark and thatch, where the matriarch had been sleeping since the second storm. She was bundled in so many layers she barely looked human anymore—just a shape, still and silent beneath braided cloth and worn pelts.

Eldan crouched, glanced at her, then looked back at Vince.

"Her breathing… slows," he said, his voice quiet and tight. "Heart not strong."

Vince stepped closer. The matriarch's chest rose, but faintly. The skin around her eyes looked pale, almost gray.

"She knows," Eldan added. "She asked… for this."

He reached into his coat and handed Vince a small folded cloth—a faded triangle of wool with an old stone charm tied into one corner. The same kind she used to wear around her wrist.

Vince took it with both hands. For a second, he couldn't speak. Then:

"She's not dying."

Eldan gave a single nod. "Not yet."

They stood in silence. Then Vince tucked the cloth inside his inner coat pocket, just above his heart.

"She'll stay warm," he said.

It wasn't a promise. Just a decision.

They returned to the fire ring. The others had already begun to gather—called without words, drawn by the shifting rhythm in the air. They came in pairs, wrapped in furs, eyes dull but alert.

Branik. Maela. Brik and Rhosyn. Marek. Ferren. Maeren. Lorin. Loris.

Even the quiet ones stood now.

Vince sat beside the fire and waited until the last crunch of boots fell silent.

Then he bent forward and drew in the packed snow. Four simple shapes.

A flame. A root. A cracked hut. A fire circle with figures around it.

He tapped each in turn.

"Fire team. Food team. Repair team. Stay team."

Eldan echoed the names in their tongue—short, clipped syllables, each one like a match struck in the dark.

Vince pointed at Brik and Rhosyn. "Fire."

Then at Maela and Marek. "Food."

Then at Branik and Maeren. "Repair."

Then at Eldan, Siljan, and the quiet mothers bundled with infants nearby.

"You guard the warmth," he said.

Eldan didn't translate that. He just nodded.

"No one goes alone," Vince added. "No one comes back empty."

That, Eldan did say aloud. It hung in the air like a commandment.

Even Marek nodded. Grudging, but real.

Vince pressed his palm over his coat, where the matriarch's charm lay against his chest.

She was still breathing.

And now, so was the village.

They moved quickly. Not with speed, but with decision.

By the time the sun had climbed weakly behind its curtain of gray, the teams had formed—layered in everything they had left. Cloaks, blankets, old scarves. They looked like ghosts moving through ghosts.

Brik led the fire team—tall, sharp-eyed, his lopsided beard dusted with frost. At his side were Rhosyn and Loris, each carrying crude poles tipped with hooks or wedges, good for prying loose bark or dragging fallen limbs.

Vince watched them from the edge of the shelter.

"You go north," he rasped. "Old path. No slope."

Brik nodded. No smile. Just a short thump of fist to chest. Then they were gone, disappearing into the trees like they'd been part of the forest all along.

Maela's team headed next.

She checked the bags twice before they left—carefully layered with root bundles, slings, and extra twine. Marek walked ahead of her without a word. Ferren followed, his arms full of barbed sticks and a reed-wrapped spear.

Vince called to them.

"Watch for animal trails," he said. "Soft prints. Droppings. Look high—branches stripped clean."

Maela nodded. "No hunting. Not unless we must."

"Good," Vince said. "We need numbers. Not blood."

She left a small sack near the fire before she went. Dried mushrooms. Four left. It was all they could spare.

The repair team remained closest. Branik, Maeren, and Lorin swept through the shelters—checking roof tension, shifting thatch, clearing frost buildup where the ice had warped bark seams. They didn't speak much. Just worked.

Inside the shelter, the fire flickered low.

Children huddled near each other. Irie helped braid broken reed mats back into shape. Taren updated his rough map with shaky lines that marked where snow had crushed beams. Siljan ran tools back and forth like a shadow.

Eldan oversaw everything without sitting once.

Every hour or so, he brought Vince a status—short, precise.

"Fire team—still moving. Brik signals: one sled half-full."

"Food team—Maela sent back branch samples. Scratch marks. Big."

"Repair—Maeren says southern wall cracked, but not failed."

Each time, Vince nodded. Gave a short order. "Burn sled," he said once. "Not worth waiting."

He didn't leave the fire circle.

Didn't have to.

They moved without needing him beside them now.

But they always glanced back—just once—to see him watching.

And Vince always nodded.

Not to lead.

But to anchor.

The snow hadn't stopped. But now it fell softer. Like it was waiting.

Waiting to see what they'd do next.

By dusk, they returned.

First came the fire team—dragging one sled, half-loaded with fallen branches and bark strips, another lashed with chunks of split rootwood. Their faces were raw from wind. Brik had a gash across one cheek, frozen red, but said nothing. Rhosyn handed Vince a stick with curled bark like a prize.

"Dry enough," she said. "We found old stumps under the drift."

Vince nodded. "Good. Stack close. Not inside."

Then the food team limped in—Maela with a torn wrap, Ferren missing one of his gloves. Marek said nothing, but his arm was marked with long, shallow scratches.

"Bear," Maela said grimly. "Old one. Denning. We didn't press."

Vince looked to Eldan, who translated more detail. They'd spotted tracks, but the animal had avoided them—tired, hungry. A warning more than a threat.

They'd brought back roots, frozen berry stems, and a half-eaten kill likely dropped by a predator. Enough to make broth.

It wasn't victory.

But it was survival.

As others worked to divide the finds—firewood piled, food sorted—Vince sat quietly. Not just tired, but watching.

Listening.

Eldan finally approached. He crouched beside the fire and glanced once toward the back of the shelter, where the Matriarch rested beneath thick layers of furs. She hadn't spoken all day. She hadn't opened her eyes.

"Her breath is shallow," Eldan said softly. "Slower."

Vince turned slightly.

"She saw us through the first fire. Through the dark winters."

"Yes," Eldan said. "But not all winters end."

There was no sadness in his tone. Just acceptance.

Vince looked back at the fire. It crackled low, steady.

"She gave me a charm," he said. "Said I was hearth."

Eldan nodded. "You are."

Silence returned.

Then, behind them, a small sound—shuffling.

Joran approached with Anelka at his side, each carrying a bowl of root broth, steam rising in soft curls. Joran set one down near Vince. Anelka moved toward the Matriarch's bed.

She didn't speak.

Just gently set the bowl down beside the old woman's hand.

The Matriarch didn't stir.

But Anelka knelt anyway. Sat cross-legged beside her and waited.

Vince watched her.

This is what strength looks like.

Not loud. Not hard.

But staying. Holding ground. Refusing to leave even when hope flickers.

That night, as the village drifted into fragile sleep, Vince remained near the fire. His stick across his lap. His shoulders wrapped in heavy wool.

Outside, the wind had not returned.

Inside, the flames danced quietly.

And the silence no longer felt like a threat.

It felt like a choice.

A held breath.

A world waiting to see what came next.