The Place Between Worlds

The cold no longer bit with the same hunger.

It lingered—yes—settling into the seams of huts and the quiet of lungs, but it no longer felt endless. The air still stung, yet it whispered now, rather than screamed.

Snow melted slower than memory, yet it melted.

A drip.

A sag in the eaves.

A hair-thin crack in the stream ice—barely a line of dark water—but real.

Vince stood outside the central shelter, boots planted, shoulders loose. No cane, no limp, no fever. His strength had returned days ago—the kind of steady strength earned by chopping bark, hauling beams, mending roofs while frost still clung to the nails.

Around him, the village breathed differently. Bodies were lean but unbroken. Bruises had yellowed, coughs fallen silent. They moved with the drained calm of fighters who had already bled and somehow kept their footing.

Branik tested the fence line—no wobble this time.

Maela sorted roots with precise hands—no tremor now.

Rhosyn laughed, low and brief, when Eldan muttered a joke about the thaw—no rasp left in either throat.

Healthy, yes. But health didn't erase the memory of being hunted by storms.

They still watched the sky as though expecting it to lunge.

Two and a half moons of winter had carved lessons into muscle and bone:

—Store more wood than the mind thinks possible.

—Sleep lightly.

—Speak only what is useful.

—Hope can wait; water must not.

They had lost six. Seven, if you counted the shadow the Matriarch left behind. They honored that absence without words—an empty seat near every fire circle, a bowl never refilled.

Yet today even the silence felt lighter.

Snow no longer pressed; it released.

Vince walked the outer path. Footprints held their edges instead of vanishing under new drifts. A single bird sang from a black branch; he paused, listening. It wasn't a herald of spring—just a note, fragile but persistent, threading through the cold.

A woman inside began to hum for the children—a melody without words, older than any language Vince had learned. The tune braided itself with the birdcall, a thin rope of sound tugging them all toward something that wasn't quite hope, but close enough to hurt.

He exhaled, letting the air scrape the bottom of his lungs. Warmth was still distant, yet the wind no longer carried the threat of knives.

They were not healed.

They were not safe.

But they were alive—strong in body, hollowed in spirit, standing anyway.

For now, that was enough.

They sat near the trench's curve, where the snow had thinned into slush and the frozen soil began to yield. Not fully—but enough to dig. Enough to imagine the world would move again.

Vince crouched low, fingers pressing into damp earth. Each handful turned over felt like memory. Cold clung under his nails. His body no longer ached like before, but the fatigue ran deeper than muscle. It was in the breath. In the bones.

Eldan squatted beside him, rubbing his thumb along the handle of a dull tool. His eyes drifted between Vince and the rising treeline, as if watching for another storm. Or something worse.

"You think we live?" Eldan asked, voice quiet. "Next winter?"

Vince didn't look up. He ran his hand along the trench wall and pressed a crack closed with a clump of wet clay.

"We live," Vince said. "If we change."

Eldan raised a brow. "Change?"

Vince nodded. "Trench deeper. More clean water. Waste far. Shelter better."

He pointed toward the cluster of huts. "One big store. Dry. Stone, not reed. Keep food safe. Cold outside. Dry inside."

Eldan frowned, trying to follow. His words came slower. "You know many things. Not from us. Not from Matriarch. Not even Branik."

Vince paused. He felt the pull of memory—the beast in the snow, the eyes like glass, the words he still didn't understand. That night lingered behind his breath.

But he couldn't speak of it.

He couldn't speak of where he came from, not truly.

"I forget," Vince said at last. He tapped the side of his head. "I wake here. Alone. No name, no place. Just... nothing."

Eldan squinted. "But you build. You plan."

Vince gave a short laugh, more breath than voice. "Some things… they stay."

A silence passed between them. Not awkward. Heavy. Shared.

Then Vince stood, brushing dirt from his palms.

"We need more," he said. "Next time storm come, we no break."

He pointed to the stream beyond the trench. "We block bad water. Build gate. Stop filth."

Eldan followed his gesture. "You show?"

"Yes," Vince said. "I teach. Not hard."

Eldan smiled faintly. "You strange man."

"I know," Vince said, and looked out toward the snow-capped ridges. His voice dropped low. "Strange live longer."

Behind his ribs, he still felt the memory of the beast. Not its breath. Not its words. Just its presence. Like winter had spoken to him once, and then vanished.

He would not tell them.

Some things were too heavy.

But he could give them this.

Trenches. Storage. Smoke vents. Drainage. Systems that would outlast panic. That would teach them to think ahead—not just survive, but grow.

He turned back to Eldan.

"We build slow," Vince said. "But we build strong."

Eldan nodded. "Good."

Together, they crouched again, and began to shape the earth. Not to escape winter—

—but to meet it next time, with open eyes and solid ground.

Their boots sank softly into the edge of thawing snow as Vince and Eldan made their way back toward the village. The sky above had softened, no longer the leaden weight of winter, but still dull with cold. Trees whispered under the wind — not violent anymore, just tired.

Behind them, the trench waited, the new cuts in the ground still raw. Ahead, the village stood quiet, patched together by hands too weary to dream.

Eldan walked with his hands behind his back. "You think… water, shelter, fire. You fix."

Vince nodded.

"But we… we still scattered. No one lead. Not really."

Vince paused, squinted toward the far huts. A woman passed with a basket of dried moss. Two children followed her, not because they were told — just because they always had. There was no command. Just repetition.

He exhaled. "That's the next thing."

"What?"

"A system."

Eldan frowned slightly. "System?"

Vince searched for the right words. His tongue still struggled to fit thought into this new language. "Not just... who dig. Who cook. But more. Who decide. Who protect. Who guide."

Eldan tilted his head. "Like rules?"

"Yes. Rules, but also roles."

Eldan scratched his beard. "We had before. Long ago. Maybe Matriarch time. But it... faded."

Vince didn't speak for a moment. The silence stretched.

In his mind, he saw something — not this village, but another. Stone streets slick with rain. Cold metal. The quiet weight of men waiting for his word. Naples.

He blinked the thought away.

"I think about... things," he said, voice low. "From before."

Eldan nodded slowly. "You not say much of past."

"No need," Vince said. "I forget some. I remember some. Doesn't matter."

He pointed toward the village. "We can't wait. Need structure. Strong now. Before next cold."

Eldan looked toward the huts. "You lead?"

Vince shook his head. "I build. Others rise. But all must know their part."

Eldan's hand moved — a slow sweep across his chest, then up in a spiral. "Like roots," he signed. "Grow wide. Hold strong."

Vince nodded once. "Exactly."

They kept walking. The wind tugged at their sleeves, gentle now, as if the world was beginning to breathe again.

Vince looked back at the woods, just for a second.

He didn't think of the beast.

He didn't speak of it.

But the memory moved inside him, quiet as a shadow.

And he knew the next storm wouldn't be of snow.