CHAPTER 20: WINTER IS COMING

The next day, as dawn cracked over the smoldering remnants of our village, we rose, not as survivors, but as something harder, something forged in the embers of what we had lost. Brick by brick, the ruins gave way to new beginnings. Splintered wood was replaced with fresh beams, the scent of sawdust filling the air as weary hands labored under the sun. What had once been a shattered memory slowly rose again, stronger than before.

Novalie's father stood on the outskirts, where the dying trees met the dark forest, his silhouette barely a shadow against the looming, skeletal branches. His hands moved in slow, deliberate circles, and the very air around them shimmered, alive, pulsing with magic. His voice, when it came, was quiet. Steady. It held the weight of power, the finality of fate.

"This barrier will hold," he said. His eyes never left the abyss beyond. "They won't breach our village as long as it stands."

The grotesque remains of goblins and orcs lay in twisted heaps around us, their black blood seeped into the earth, darkening the soil like ink spilled. Their twisted bodies a testament to the battle we had already fought. We couldn't afford to simply discard them. The skins were too valuable, the bones too useful. So, we repurposed them, crafting leather for boots, belts, and even bound books. The decaying flesh? Fertilizer for our fields. But even as we worked, the sheer volume of carcasses threatened to suffocate us.

So we burned them, watching as the flames devoured their twisted forms, leaving nothing but ash.

As autumn's breath turned colder, we prepared for the long, dark winter. We chopped wood from the towering trees that stood like silent sentinels around the village. We fished in the shallow streams, stored crops, preserved meats, and stashed away whatever we could for the coming months.

Winter came swiftly, stealing the color from the land and replacing it with white. The lake froze, its once-glittering waters now a smooth, icy expanse. The trees stood bare, shadows swallowed the sky, and then, like ashes from a dying world, the snow began to fall. Our village, once full of life, was now a quiet, frozen ghost town beneath the weight of the snow.

And yet, in that cold, in the hollow silence, Novalie still showed up. She laughed as she as she taught me how to build the perfect snowman, her nimble hands shaping the cold into life with each snowball we threw. We fought the snow like two children reclaiming a piece of joy in the midst of the desolate winter.

When the nights grew long, we sat by the fire, the outside world nothing more than a whisper beyond the frostbitten windows. I sipped tea, let its warmth spread through my veins, and lost myself in the pages of books that promised adventure beyond these endless white walls.

But even in that peace, something gnawed at me.

Xanthe's phoenix, the living flame, the soul of warmth itself, had grown cold. The once-vibrant creature lay still, feathers dulled, ember eyes dim. No matter how much we fed it, no matter the gentle words, it refused to stir. It was as if the world had frozen over completely.

One day, as I cleared the snow that had piled up outside, my father worked quietly in the workshop, the sound of his hammer echoing in the cold. My mother, ever the heart of our home, cooked her family's secret stew inside.

And then came the scream.

"Help!"

A figure emerged from the storm, a girl, younger than Novalie and me, staggering forward, her breath misting in the air. Tears had frozen on her cheeks, her hands raw, red, shaking.

I moved before I could think.

"Here, take these." I shoved my mittens into her trembling hands. My instincts screamed that it was another attack, another ambush, and I opened the door, ready to fight.

I didn't hesitate.

I whistled, and from the shadows, the bird emerged, its feathers still dull, yet its presence undeniable.

The bird stirred. Wings unfurled. Fire ignited.

"Lead the way."

The girl ran, still sobbing, her breath misting in the frozen air. I followed her through the snow, each step heavier than the last. We came upon a spot where the snow was piled higher than anywhere else. She collapsed to the ground, frantic, her hands shaking as she pointed to the frozen earth beneath.

"She's here! Please, help her!" the girl cried, her voice desperate. Her words tore at me, but it was, streaks of red. Long, jagged lines where the girl's fingers had scraped desperately against the ice, that made my heart stop.

I didn't wait.

"Burn."

The phoenix flared to life, a blazing inferno against the cold. The fire surged forward, steam screaming into the air.

"Stop!" The girl gasped, panic wild in her eyes. "You'll burn her!"

I couldn't afford to explain, not now. "Calm down, kid. The bird will melt the snow, not burn her." I spoke as though I were the one who had all the answers, even as my hands trembled.

The snow melted in seconds, revealing what lay beneath.

A body, a girl, pale as the frost around her. She looked just like the girl beside me, only still, motionless, as though death had already claimed her.

For one sickening moment, the world stopped.

Then—

A breath.

Faint. Barely there. But real.

The girl collapsed beside her, sobs wracking her small frame.

And I understood, as the scene unfolded in my mind like a nightmare.

The girl had been waiting for her sister in the snow. The wind had howled, the blizzard so thick that nothing could be seen. One wrong step, one moment of distraction, and the earth beneath her feet had given way, swallowing her whole. Her sister had arrived too late. The snow had already claimed its prize, and the only thing left was a faint imprint of footsteps, footsteps that quickly vanished, swallowed by the storm.

But the other girl had not hesitated. She had thrown herself into the snow, hands tearing at the frozen earth, blood mingling with the ice as she dug with desperation, with fury, with love. Her fingers were raw, her palms cracked open from the cold. But she did not stop. She couldn't. She kept digging, hoping, praying, believing that her sister was still there, still alive, somewhere beneath the snow.

The wind had screamed in her ears, the snow stung her face, but she didn't care. She clawed at the earth, her hands shaking, her heart pounding in her chest. Minutes bled into hours, and still, there was no sign of her sister. That's when she knew. She was out of time. Out of hope. She needed help, someone, anyone, to save the one thing she couldn't live without.

And that was the moment she knew, she couldn't do this alone. She had to find help, no matter the cost.

The girl's breath was shallow, but she was alive. The warmth of the phoenix's flames had given her the chance to live. In that moment, as I watched the sister's tear-streaked face crumble in relief.