The fire clung to life like a lie told too many times.

It burned low in the snow-choked clearing, its light trembling as the wind pressed in from all sides. The forest crowded close, ancient pines bending inward as though curious—or waiting. Snow fell steadily, erasing tracks, smothering sound, sealing the world in a hush so complete it felt deliberate.

Okka knelt beside the flames.

She looked too small for the night, too still, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders and into the snow like a pale wound in the dark. The fire’s glow painted faint warmth across her porcelain skin, though it never reached her eyes. They reflected the flames without softening, crimson pools holding something deeper than fatigue.

“Still burning,” she murmured to herself, voice barely more than breath. “That’s good.”

The sword stood planted before her, immense and immovable, its white blade catching the firelight in cold flashes. Black thorns etched along its length cast twisted shadows that crawled across the snow. She reached for it with care, as if it might resent impatience, and began to clean it—slow, methodical strokes, the same way she always did.

The motion calmed her. It always had.

“Not chipped,” she whispered, inspecting the edge. A pause. A small nod. “You did well today.”

The words sounded strange aloud, but the night did not argue.

When the blade was clean, she rested her hands in her lap and allowed herself to breathe. The horns at her temples caught the firelight, smooth and black, unmistakable against her pale hair. A faint ache pulsed beneath them—pressure without pain, a reminder of what listened when she spoke.

She opened her pack and drew out fresh bandages.

Unwrapping the old ones was slower work. She winced once, just once, then stilled herself. “It’s fine,” she said quietly, as if correcting a child. “You’ve had worse.” Melted snow warmed over the fire was used sparingly, her movements efficient, practiced beyond her years. Beyond anyone’s years, really.

The forest shifted.

Branches creaked. Snow slid from boughs in heavy sighs. Somewhere far off, something moved that should not have, then stopped.

Okka’s hands hesitated.

“…Just the wind,” she told herself, though she didn’t sound convinced. After a moment, she added, softer, “It’s always just the wind. Until it isn’t.”

She finished binding her wounds and leaned back on her heels, eyes lifting to the canopy above. The moon struggled behind racing clouds, its light thin and sickly, washing the clearing in pale gray. Her shadow stretched long across the snow, distorted by the fire—too sharp at the edges, too still at the center.

Tomorrow pressed against her thoughts, heavy and inevitable.