Leaves were already falling in slow spirals, carried by wind that had taken on a sharper edge. The once-blooming wildflowers curled inward, huddled beneath frost-touched soil. Birds gathered in tight flocks before vanishing into the sky, their calls echoing like warnings across the forest. Animals grew restless, moving in tighter circles, preparing for what was coming.
Winter.
Kale could feel it tightening around the world like a noose—cold mornings, icy breaths, frozen puddles cracking underfoot. But this time, he wasn't afraid.
He had prepared.
His makeshift jacket hugged his frame tightly, layered with thick fur and bark scraps sewn together using golden-threaded vines the Ocean had shown him. His feet were wrapped in the worn boots Rellan had given him—still scuffed, still thin in places, but better than nothing. He no longer looked like just another city beggar hiding in the woods. He looked more like someone who belonged to the forest now.
And today, he was out scavenging again—not for survival this time, but for storage. Berries would last longer in the cold. Mushrooms dried well. If he filled his shelves and stashed food in safe corners of the shack, he wouldn't need to hunt every day. Not until the real snow came.
He reached the river bend just as morning light broke through the trees, casting long shadows over the mossy ground. This place always had something to offer. Wild blackberries clung stubbornly to thorny bushes, their deep purple skins hardened by the chill. Nearby, thick clusters of mushrooms sprouted from fallen logs—some soft and pale, others firm and dark like meaty caps.
"Alright," Kale muttered under his breath, pulling off his gloves and rubbing his hands together. "Let's see what we got."
He crouched beside a bush, fingers plucking the ripest berries one by one. They were small, bitter at first bite, but sweetened when warmed between his palms. He dropped them gently into his satchel, careful not to crush the ones already inside.
"This here's good," he murmured, talking to himself like usual. "Last a few days if I dry 'em right."
A little further down the bank, he knelt near a rotting log, scanning the damp wood. Sure enough, there they were—mushrooms pushing up through the moss, some white and delicate, others fat and sturdy. Kale tapped one lightly with his knife tip, sniffing it before slipping it into his bag.
"These should be fine," he said aloud, brushing dirt from his sleeve. "Nothin' too weird poppin' up this close to the river."
The water nearby had started to freeze at its edges, thin sheets of ice forming overnight. The current moved sluggishly, reflecting the gray skies above. Trees leaned inward, heavy with frost-laced branches. The air smelled sharp, clean, and quiet—like everything was holding its breath.
Kale took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Might as well wash up while I'm out here," he muttered, stepping toward the river.
He dipped his hands into the icy water, wincing slightly as the cold shot through his skin. He scrubbed his face and arms, rinsing away sweat and grime from yesterday's work. His reflection stared back at him—pale cheeks, tired eyes, hair matted with leaves and dust. He ran his fingers through it, trying to smooth it back.
"Well, look at you," he said, smirking slightly. "Cleaner than yesterday, at least."
Once done, he stood, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. The Ocean pulsed faintly at the edge of his thoughts, guiding him home along the safest path. No more wandering blindly. No more getting lost in circles. The golden threads flickered ahead, showing him where roots jutted from the earth and where the ground was slick with early frost.
By the time he made it back to the shack, the sun had begun its slow descent behind the trees. The wooden structure stood tall against the growing cold, its new layers of leaves and vines holding strong. He pushed open the door, stepping inside.
He set the satchel on the floor and stretched stiff limbs with a groan. "Man… wish I didn't have to walk so far in the cold," he muttered, blowing warmth into his hands. "But at least I got somethin' outta it."
He sat cross-legged near the center of the room, staring at the space in front of him. He wasn't done yet.
Tonight, he needed to dive deeper into the Ocean.
Tonight, he needed to learn fire.
It was the only way he'd make it through winter alone.
"I ain't countin' on luck this year," he whispered, eyes fixed on the wall like it held answers. "I ain't starvin' again. And I sure as hell ain't freezin' to death in my own damn shack."
He closed his eyes, steadying his breath. Inhale. Exhale. A familiar pull tugged at his soul—and then, like slipping beneath warm water, the world changed.
Golden streams stretched endlessly before him, glowing softly under the weight of unseen currents. Threads danced in the air, swirling like rivers of thought. Swirls of dust drifted lazily, forming fleeting patterns that dissolved just as quickly as they appeared.
This was the Ocean—but not the Shallows.
He was closer now. Deeper. The Deep Currents.
Knowledge here felt heavier, richer. It pressed against his thoughts, whispering in languages he couldn't fully understand. Visions flickered before him—hands cupping flame without pain, tongues of fire dancing between fingers like tame animals.
Kale reached for one thread, letting it coil around his mind.
Another vision surged forward.
A man stood in a frozen field, raising his palm. Sparks leapt from his fingers, catching onto dry moss with a soft hiss. Another showed a woman holding fire between her hands, not burning, just burning. A third—a child summoning fire from the air itself, turning night into day with a single thought.
Kale pulled himself back to reality with a gasp, chest rising fast. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from something else entirely. Need. Determination.
If those visions were real, if fire could be shaped and controlled like that, then he had to learn it.
Because this was his only chance.
His only way through the cold.
And he wasn't about to waste it.