The Place Between Worlds

The snow had softened to a slow drift, no longer falling in sheets but settling like ash—thin, unhurried, and patient.

Vince sat near the fire, back hunched, breath low, the stick across his knees like a tether to the ground. Around him, the shelter held a hush not of fear, but of listening.

Siljan crouched near the door, peeking out through a gap in the reed flap, eyes narrowed. Anelka sat beside Joran, threading a length of twine through dry bark slats, lips pressed tight in concentration. Joran sorted stones by size without looking up. Eldan passed behind them once, twice, checking the ceiling slats, adjusting a rope, then settling beside Vince without a word.

No one asked when the others would return.

No one needed to.

The work was already moving—outside, beyond the snow, beyond sight. Brik had gone north with Rhosyn and Loris at first light. Maela led Marek and Ferren west. Branik's team swept along the outer walls, Maeren trailing behind with her quiet tools and fast hands.

Their places near the fire remained empty, but not cold. Someone had left a carved mug by the logs—half full, still warm. Another blanket had been laid behind Vince's mat. Small things. Silent things.

The kind that meant: We'll be back.

Vince coughed once, short and dry. Eldan didn't glance over, just reached beside him and passed a cup with his usual two-finger gesture.

Vince nodded. Not thanks—just seen.

He sipped. Let the warmth curl through his ribs.

Above, the thatch groaned faintly, adjusting under the snow's weight. No one moved. Anelka pressed another strip of bark into her braid. Joran hummed low under his breath—off-tune, but soft enough not to matter.

like breath before a word. A held note.

Not absence.

Expectation.

The wind shifted.

Not loud. Not sharp. Just a lean of air that made the reed flap stir like breath through a sleeping mouth. Siljan noticed first—he rose to one knee, peering out, then glanced back with a small nod.

They were coming.

No call. No sound of boots. Just a shape in the white, then another. Shadows tall and bundled, burdened with sleds and slung tools, stepping slow but steady through the powder-thick drifts.

Vince stood—not fast, but without faltering. Eldan helped him only with a hand on the elbow, nothing more. Just presence.

Brik emerged first from the snow line, frost clinging to his beard in stiff curls, one hand gripping the front bar of a half-loaded sled. Behind him came Rhosyn, shoulders hunched, a long strip of peeled bark coiled over one arm like a ribbon. Loris brought up the rear, dragging a bundle of rootwood tied in broken rope.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to.

Eldan moved to clear the door. Anelka and Joran stood aside. One by one, the fire team entered—steam rising from their shoulders as the warmth met them. No cheering. No fanfare. Just the heavy exhale of the cold leaving their lungs.

Brik gave Vince a short look, then nodded once. His cheek bore a new scar—frozen red, still oozing under the crust—but he said nothing. Rhosyn dropped the bark beside the fire. Loris passed a curved branch to Siljan, who carried it like something precious.

"North path," Brik muttered. His voice was low, hoarse. "Found stumps. Dry middle."

Vince nodded.

"Stack outside," he rasped. "Smoke too fast if inside."

Brik didn't answer, but the sled scraped back out through the flap again a moment later.

The others moved in rhythm—unloading, passing, sorting. Eldan gave sharp instructions in the local tongue, his voice never raised, only shifted—tone like stone against frost. Hands moved where words faltered. Bark stacked by size. Roots to soak. Twine unraveled and dried.

Maela's team returned next. No one saw them arrive—just suddenly there, shapes at the edge of the lean-to, Marek leading, Ferren behind, Maela in the center with one arm clutched tight around a cloth wrap.

Vince noticed her limp first. Then the torn scarf at her knee.

No one asked.

He stepped forward instead, offering a hand.

She passed him the cloth.

Inside: a handful of knotted roots, a stem with shriveled berries, the front claw of something small—rabbit, maybe—half-frozen.

He weighed it with his eyes, not his hands.

"Enough for broth," he said.

Maela gave a small nod. Marek looked away. Ferren shifted the spear on his back, then sat down heavily beside the fire without a word.

Eldan crouched beside Maela, checking the leg with two fingers and a soft question. She shook her head. Not bad. Just torn.

The repair team followed—Branik, Maeren, and Lorin arriving last. Their coats were soaked. Branik's arm was scratched, Maeren's fingers nearly black from cold, but their expressions held no fear. Only a kind of settled tiredness.

They had done what they could.

"South wall holds," Branik muttered. "Cracked. Not split."

"North roof's worse," Maeren added. "Drip under bark."

Vince pointed to the tool pile, then to Joran and Siljan.

"Give them rope," he said. "New twine tomorrow."

The boys moved.

Food was handed off. Wood was stacked. Steam filled the space where breath and broth collided. Outside, the snow kept falling, quiet and steady.

But inside…

Inside, the fire breathed again.

Night settled slowly, folding over the village like a soft cloak.

Inside the main shelter, the fire's glow stretched long shadows against the bark walls. Vince sat close, leaning heavily on his walking stick, the small stone charm warm against his chest beneath layers of wool. Around him, the village breathed—a quiet rhythm of flickering flames, shifting blankets, and whispered breaths.

Eldan moved between the huts, checking quietly on those too weak to rise. He paused by the matriarch's side. Her eyes were closed, face serene but fragile. Vince watched from afar, heart tight.

Siljan sat nearby, restless but silent. The boy had not spoken since the storm, but his eyes held questions Vince could almost understand without words.

The village had survived.

Not by force.

Not by orders.

But by the slow, steady gathering of small acts.

A shared fire.

A passed bundle of roots.

Hands weaving twine together in the hush.

Vince thought back to Naples—shadows where loyalty meant fear, where power was taken with threats and broken promises. Here, there was none of that.

Here, there was something harder to grasp—something earned.

Trust.

Not easy.

Not loud.

But alive.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, soft as feathers, blanketing the world in white.

Vince exhaled slowly.

Tomorrow, the rebuilding would continue.

But tonight, they would hold.

Together.

No words were needed.

Only presence.

And the steady beat of a village learning to live—not as separate souls fighting the cold—but as one body, weathering the storm.