Stepping out of the workshop felt like plunging into a different season entirely. The cold snapped against Harper's and Ambrosia's flushed faces with the sharpness of broken glass. Their sweat chilled almost instantly, small shivers rippling beneath their coats. Breath plumed out in long white streams that curled upward before being snatched away by the wind.
The courtyard had grown harsher in the last hour. Snow fell in slow, drifting curtains — not heavy enough to blur the world but persistent enough to coat the ground in a clean, brittle crust. The sky hung low and oppressive, a lid of flat gray swallowing whatever sunlight might have existed. The pyre burned steadily behind them, haloing the courtyard in an amber glow, the heat reaching them even at distance in intermittent waves.
Above, guards patrolled the walls with grim steadiness. Their breath fogged the air in bursts. Their boots clanged against the frostbitten catwalk. Every so often, one of them paused, raised a rifle, and fired down onto Spruce Springs' Old Main Street. The gunshot cracked through the morning stillness like a snapped tree branch. Moments later, a guttural moan carried faintly from beyond the wall.
"Persistent bastards today," Harper muttered, watching one of the guards reload.
"Cold slows 'em," Ambrosia said through a yawn. "Makes them stupid, makes us lucky."
"I'll take lucky."
They crossed the courtyard on the path that ran alongside the barn and the old tool sheds — a lane of packed snow flattened by countless boots. The forge loomed ahead: a sheet-metal car port structure, repurposed from an old maintenance garage and retrofitted into a fire-belching machine shop. Dark smoke curled lazily from its chimney. The dull, rhythmic clanging of hammer on steel echoed out into the courtyard with a steady, heartbeat-like cadence.
Harper exhaled a cloud of fog and clapped gloved hands together. "Now on to the forge to see what Guy and Donovan have for their list."
"What else could they possibly need?" Ambrosia said. "More scrap metal? Didn't Jade bring them a whole solar panel last week? And then Eli used it to make them a deep-cycle battery from an old truck battery — the one that powers that electric crucible thing?"
Harper stopped walking, stared at her, eyes narrowing with dramatic disbelief. "Holy shit. They get the good stuff? We could have totally used that. We could have had James or David rig it to charge our hair dryers or other things we need."
Ambrosia barked a laugh, bumping Harper with her elbow. "You need. I have a man, thank you."
Harper snorted and rolled her eyes. "As if. Reddin's a badass, sure, but I think he'd faint as soon as your shirt came off, Rosia."
Ambrosia froze mid-step, hand flying to her mouth as she broke into helpless laughter. "What? Gotta train them slow, Harp. Not everyone is as—" she hiccuped a laugh— "as anxious as Kael."
Harper choked out a laugh of her own. "Please. You'd have better luck teaching that panther of his to play fetch. Plus Kael knows just how I like it."
Ambrosia made a scandalized noise as Harper waggled her eyebrows.
The snow crunched beneath their boots as they neared the barn. The structure loomed tall and shadowed, wind rattling loose boards, the faded red paint peeling like sunburnt skin. The forge sat just beyond it, its doorway glowing with flickering orange firelight.
Then—movement.
A flash. A dart of something pale slipping behind the barn's corner.
Ambrosia's breath hitched. She stopped so sharply Harper nearly collided into her.
"Harp," Ambrosia whispered, adjusting her jacket with a slow, tensed motion. "Did you see that?"
Harper followed her gaze, squinting toward the barn. Nothing. Just shifting snowfall and the metallic groan of the wind pushing against the siding.
"Uh," Harper said carefully, "no. Not unless you want us to end up with more work than we already have."
She grabbed Ambrosia's hand and tugged gently. "Come on."
Ambrosia hesitated for only a second before letting Harper pull her forward, both women slipping into the forge.
⸻
Inside the Forge
The heat hit them immediately.
The forge interior was a cavern of smoke-thick warmth, lit by the molten glow of a large crucible and the crackling orange of the coal-fed furnace. The air tasted of iron, burnt carbon, and hot dust. Sparks flew in controlled bursts as Donovan hammered a red-hot slab of scrap steel over the anvil.
Guy, larger and broader than the doorway itself, worked at the grindstone, sharpening a machete with slow, methodical strokes. The blade threw off a shower of sparks with each pass, briefly illuminating the deep shadows carved into his face.
The forge's walls were lined with weapons in various stages of creation: rough blades cooling in sand pits, spearheads suspended on hooks, half-shaped metal brackets, and a borderline absurd collection of improvised knives. Various men worked metal using hammers and tongs against the anvils , some feed the forge.
Ambrosia immediately pushed her hood back, wiping her forehead with the back of her wrist. "Why is everywhere we go today hot as hell?"
Guy didn't look up from his grindstone. "Proper forging temperature is twelve hundred degrees," he rumbled, voice deep and slow. "You're welcome."
Donovan continued hammering. "You two look like you stepped out of a snowglobe."
"We kinda did," Harper said. "You guys got a list for Arden?"
The hammering paused. Donovan plunged the glowing metal into a trough of water. Steam exploded upward in a violent hiss. The heat from the spray ghosted across Harper's cheek.
Guy shut off the grindstone and grabbed a cloth to wipe his hands. "Yeah," he said. "Got a list. Got a complaint too."
Ambrosia sighed dramatically. "Of course you do."
Donovan stepped forward, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. "We need good metal. Not bent rebar and old fence posts."
"Fence posts worked," Harper countered.
"They shattered," Donovan emphasized.
"On what?"
Guy answered in a tone both flat and resigned. "Kael. Obviously."
Harper snorted. "Okay fair."
Donovan handed Harper a clipboard with smudged graphite writing down the page.
She scanned the list aloud.
"High-carbon steel pieces… coil springs… propane tanks… heavy-gauge wire… rivets… ceramic insulation? Guy, what are you two building, a whole new goddamn apocalypse?"
Guy shrugged. "Close."
Ambrosia peered over Harper's shoulder. "Why do you need ceramic insulation?"
"For the crucible upgrade," Donovan said. "We're planning to increase the melt capacity."
"You already melted an engine block last month," Harper said.
"Yeah," Guy replied. "We wanna melt two at once."
Harper blinked at him. "Why."
"Efficiency."
Ambrosia started laughing. "No. No, I'm sorry. You cannot call what you two do 'efficiency.' You melt scrap into worse scrap."
"It's art," Donovan snapped defensively.
"It's dangerous," Harper shot back.
"It's both," Guy corrected, nodding approvingly toward himself and Donovan.
Harper rolled her eyes but kept reading the list. "Also requesting… two more fire extinguishers."
"Oh god," Ambrosia whispered. "Why."
Guy hesitated.
Donovan hesitated harder.
Finally, Donovan muttered, "…We almost set the barn roof on fire again."
Harper's face twisted. "Again?"
"The wind," Guy said.
"And the sparks," Donovan added.
"And the time you tried to melt six mufflers at once," Ambrosia said.
"That was a structural test," Guy insisted.
Ambrosia turned to Harper. "Tell Arden to send Kael."
"Kael can't go with us today," Harper reminded her. "He's doing that thing with Arden and Reddin."
Guy perked up. "Good. Then he can help us with the smelting when he gets back."
"NO," Harper and Ambrosia said at the same time.
Donovan cleared his throat. "Anyway. We need the stuff on the list. We're running low on everything."
Harper tucked the clipboard under her arm. "All right. Arden will add it to the next run."
Ambrosia wandered toward the corner where finished weapons hung on wall hooks. "Ooh," she murmured, reaching up. "Is this new?"
Guy turned. His eyes widened. "Do NOT touch the—"
Ambrosia touched it.
The blade slid a half inch out of its sheath. Just enough to glint.
"—blade," Guy finished flatly.
Ambrosia re-sheathed it and stepped away with comic innocence.
Donovan groaned. "That thing's not even tempered yet."
"It's fine," Ambrosia said.
"It is not," Guy said.
"It absolutely isn't," Donovan added.
"Okay," Harper said loudly, clapping her hands once. "We're done causing chaos."
"You caused the chaos," Guy corrected.
"She caused the chaos," Donovan added, pointing at Ambrosia.
Ambrosia raised her hands. "I am merely scouting the merchandise."
"Weapons aren't merchandise," Guy said.
"They're works of—"
"ART," Donovan said with him, synchronized.
Harper shook her head with a grin. "You two are nightmares."
"We're productive nightmares," Guy said proudly.
The forge crackled around them, hot and bright. Sparks danced. The crucible hummed. The hammer waited. The smell of molten steel wrapped the room like smoke.
But the memory of that movement behind the barn lingered in Ambrosia's mind.
She turned toward the forge's open doorway, snow drifting beyond its frame. Something felt off. The air outside carried more than wind. More than cold. Something unsettled the hairs on her arms, prickling even through the forge's heat.
"Rosia?" Harper asked softly.
Ambrosia blinked, shoulders loosening. "Yeah?"
"You good?"
Ambrosia hesitated. Then nodded.
Harper's brows drew slightly together, but she said nothing.
Instead she lifted the clipboard. "We'll grab the rest of your requests and pass this to Arden this afternoon. Try not to melt anything structurally important."
"No promises," Donovan said.
Guy added, "Absolutely none."
Harper and Ambrosia stepped back into the cold.
The air slapped them again, turning their clothes icy in seconds.
And behind them, inside the forge, the hammer struck glowing metal — a loud, resonant clang that echoed far too loudly across the yard.
It covered, almost perfectly, the sound of something soft crunching through snow behind the barn.
Something that hadn't been there before.
⸻———————————————————-
Snow had thickened into a fine, relentless sift by the time Harper and Ambrosia rounded the corner past the forge and crossed into the eastern courtyard. The winter sky hung low and bruised, a heavy lid pressing down on the State House and its people. Every breath fogged sharp and white. Every sound carried farther in the cold.
Ahead sprawled Joel's domain — the organized chaos of the daily wall crews.
Stacks of felled timbers lay half-buried in white drifts. Coils of rope hung from pegs pounded into old brick. Sleds were lined in a crooked row like makeshift warships, their runners smeared with old pitch and frost. Men and women stomped through the snow with layered clothes and weary determination, tightening harnesses, checking axes, testing the teeth of saws with gloved thumbs. The air smelled of wet bark, cold iron, pitch smoke, and the faint coppery tang of sweat trapped beneath wool.
The State House looked alive in winter — groaning, shifting, laboring — and Joel moved through it like a man guiding an enormous wounded animal.
"Hell's bells," Harper muttered, tugging her scarf higher as a gust hit them sideways. "He's got damn near half the Post Office out today."
Ambrosia's teeth chattered as she exhaled. "Lot of snow. Makes sense they're rushing. If the north wall doesn't get braced soon, it's gonna bow like a drunk at Sunday service."
Harper snorted. "You don't even go to service."
"I don't have to. Kael went once. His summary was enough for life."
They shared a brief laugh and crunched forward across the icy ground.
A log cracked in the distance — a hard, echoing pop — as two workers levered a wedge deeper with a maul. Somewhere above them a guard on the walkway yelled, "Fresh cluster on Main Street! Two dozen, maybe three!" Another gunshot rang out, then another, muffled by the thickening snowfall.
"Add that to our list," Harper muttered. "Joel's gonna want more bodies on the smother lines today."
"Think he'll yell?" Ambrosia teased.
"Who, Joel? Yell? The man barely remembers he has a voice unless you hand him a clipboard."
They crossed through the cluster of workers toward the improvised tool shed — an old bus stop shelter reinforced with scavenged tin — where Joel stood hunched over a table with three other crew leads. A map was pinned down with stones, its edges curled with damp. Lines of charcoal scribble showed where today's logging runs would cut deepest into the trees, where sled teams would haul timber back through the snow-choked trails, and where smother squads would sweep in behind them to kill any infected stirred by the noise.
Joel's breath plumed in front of him as he spoke in that quiet, earnest way of his — a calm tone that somehow carried through the clatter around him. His gray coat was dusted with snow, hair plastered to the sides of his face with cold sweat. Mittens hung from his belt by a cord. A pencil was tucked behind one ear.
He looked like a man who had slept three hours and was planning to do it again tomorrow.
"Hey!" Harper called to him, voice cutting through the wind. "Your favorite degenerates reporting for duty."
Joel glanced up, blinking like he'd been pulled from three thoughts at once. "Harper. Ambrosia. Morning. You're— ah— earlier than I expected."
"We're efficient," Ambrosia said, straightening a bit.
"We're cold," Harper corrected. "So let's get your damn list so we can keep moving."
Joel gave a wan smile. "Right. Yes. Lists." He patted his coat pockets, checked the table, squinted at a folded paper stuck under a stone. "I have it… somewhere."
One of the crew leads — an older woman named Brant — clapped him on the shoulder. "It's in your mitten, Joel."
He looked down. One mitten bulged oddly.
Joel sighed at himself, peeled it open, and pulled out the paper like it was some shy animal hiding in his clothes.
Harper grinned. "God, I love you."
Ambrosia swatted Harper's arm lightly. "Professionalism, Harp."
"It's affection. It keeps him warm."
Joel tried not to smile, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Here," he said, handing over the list. "Just the basics. We're headed out in twenty."
Harper unfolded the paper. Ambrosia leaned close. Snowflakes settled on the ink.
SMOTHER / LOGGING CREWS — DAY TASKS (REQUESTED)
• extra pine pitch (if possible)
• nails (hand-forged fine, 3–5 inch)
• one replacement crosscut handle
• more rope (dry, not the mildewed stuff)
• sharpening stones
• canvas tarps (large)
• sled runner grease (or the closest equivalent)
• two spare pulleys
Ambrosia raised an eyebrow. "This is it? Small list."
"We're trying not to be greedy," Joel said. "Workshop's been… strained."
"Oh, strained," Harper murmured. "That's one word for Bob and Eli."
Across the yard somewhere, a crash echoed followed by Bob's voice yelling, "IT WAS ALREADY BROKEN WHEN I TOUCHED IT, DAMN IT!"
Harper smirked. "Case in point."
Joel rubbed his eyes. "Also, we're short a smother lead today."
Ambrosia's brows knit. "Who?"
"Lorne," Joel said. His voice carried a subtle weight. "Fever hit him last night."
Harper and Ambrosia exchanged a tense glance. Illness was feared more than bullets these days.
"Bad?" Harper asked.
Joel hesitated. "Bad enough Arden ordered him off the roster until he stabilizes."
Ambrosia folded her arms, breath drifting in two long streams. "Shit. That puts all the mid-line work on Tessa's group."
"I know. They'll manage. They always do." Joel tapped the table, almost absently. "But the infected are coming closer every morning. Something's shifted. Maybe the storm's driven them inward."
"Any Howler sightings?" Harper asked.
"Not today," Joel said. "But the guards heard… something. Before dawn."
Ambrosia felt her stomach tighten. Harper did too — she sensed the way Ambrosia's steps stilled ever so slightly beside her.
Even saying the word "something" meant fear.
Joel cleared his throat gently, trying to dispel the mood. "Anyway. We're fine. Really. We've handled worse storms and worse crowds. Just need these supplies to get through the day."
Ambrosia forced a small exhale, trying to warm her hands. "Is there anything else you want us to add unofficially? Something not on the neat-and-tidy version?"
Joel looked down at the snow-covered earth. Then off at the crews prepping saws. Then back to the two women. His voice dropped low.
"Morale's dipping," he said. "Not dangerously. Not yet. But people are tired." He swallowed hard. "If the workshop has spare lantern wicks… or a few extra hand warmers… anything to make the smother crews less miserable out there… that'd help."
Harper softened, just a breath. "We'll see what we can scavenge."
Joel nodded once, gratitude plain on his face.
A shout went up from the other end of the yard — a young worker dragging a half-frozen sled to align it with the teams. Another group hoisted a crosscut saw and tested its flex. The cold had turned everyone's movements stiff and deliberate, like puppets being pulled on frozen strings.
The distant infected groans drifted through the snowfall like the dull hum of insects.
Ambrosia watched the crews move with a strange mix of admiration and ache. "You've got them running like a machine today."
Joel glanced back at the workers — young shoulders bowed under weight, older ones pushing through the frost.
"They're good people," he said softly. "They show up even when they shouldn't."
Harper clicked her tongue. "You're too humble. Half of them only show up because they don't want to disappoint you."
He blinked. "I… doubt that."
Ambrosia smirked. "He's adorable. Like a confused polar bear."
A faint flush colored Joel's cheeks. "I'm… going to pretend I didn't hear that."
Harper slipped the folded list into her jacket. "We'll get this to David and James after the forge. They'll prioritize the rope and pulleys."
"And maybe something warm," Ambrosia added.
Joel's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Thank you. Truly."
Harper opened her mouth to tease him again but froze when a horn blared from the north gate — two short pulses, low and resonant.
The workers all lifted their heads at once.
"Cluster?" Ambrosia whispered.
Joel listened, every muscle still.
The horn didn't repeat.
"Nothing immediate," he said. "Probably just clearing a stray group."
But his expression betrayed the tremor of unease — the same unease Arden had left with that morning.
Harper nudged the tension away with a small grin. "Well, lucky for you two bimbos like us exist."
Ambrosia shoved her lightly. "You're barely literate but sure, bimbo."
Joel huffed a laugh. "Please don't get yourselves hurt."
"No promises," Harper said. "We're doing the rounds. Then we'll pass everything on. You'll have supplies in a couple hours."
He nodded again. "Watch the weather. They're saying the ridge winds might hit early."
"That's what the moonshine's for," Ambrosia murmured.
Joel gave her a raised brow — affectionate, tired, impossibly fond of the chaos these two brought wherever they walked — and then turned back to his crews.
As Harper and Ambrosia stepped away from the worksite, the sounds behind them blended seamlessly: saws, hammers, boots crunching snow, rope snapping taut, Joel giving instructions with calm precision.
The State House breathed winter.
The women exchanged a glance once they were out of earshot.
"That man," Harper muttered, rubbing her hands together, "needs a damn nap and a hug."
Ambrosia smirked gently. "You volunteering?"
"Oh absolutely not. If I hug Joel he'll probably evaporate like steam."
"He likes you."
"He likes everyone, plus he's married to Debbie. It's his flaw."
The wind stole their words, scattering them across the courtyard as they headed toward the tanners.
Snow thickened. The pyre burned in its deep pit, flame snarling yellow-orange against the encroaching white.
There was work everywhere. Life everywhere. Struggle everywhere.
And somewhere out beyond the walls — Arden, Kael, and Reddin trudged into the old storm-scoured wild that Don had barely survived.
Harper and Ambrosia breathed out at the same time, the cold turning each sigh into a fragile plume.
"Alright," Harper said, shaking tension from her fingers. "Tanners next."
Ambrosia nodded. "Let's go before my ass freezes solid."
They walked.
And the State House got quieter behind them — the kind of quiet only winter could build.
——————
The courtyard had been cleared of snow in long stretches, but the wind still found its way through, slicing along collars and sleeves and whipping loose hair into faces. Fires burned in heavy iron braziers and stone pits, their orange glow spilling over the rough wooden racks that held stretched hides. The acrid aroma of smoke blended with the sharper tang of curing flesh, salted and sugar-dusted, a scent that made the stomach tighten yet spoke of survival in the cold, endless winter.
Harper and Ambrosia stepped carefully over the snow-packed ground, boots crunching in time with their own laughter. Harper's scarf flapped like a small banner as she clutched her mason jar, taking a long swig of the burning warmth inside.
Ambrosia's eyes narrowed against the smoke and the fine snow dust in the air. "You realize that fire is going to roast someone if they lean in too close, right?" she said, half-teasing, half-warning.
Harper waved a dismissive hand, grinning. "Then they need to toughen up. Besides…" She squinted at a hide being rubbed down with salt and sugar by a young man near one of the racks. "I smell smoke. Good smoke. You know what that means?"
"Meat or hide. Could be either. Or both," Ambrosia replied, pulling her gloves tighter as the wind cut between the fires. Her breath came in short, fogged puffs.
Nearby, Eder crouched over a makeshift rack, drizzling coarse salt along a large deer hide. The hide's hair side glistened with a thin layer of fat, sweat and smoke mingling on the surface. Sparks jumped from the fire at his feet, landing on the rack, hissing, and melting into the damp air. He worked with careful precision, fingers red and raw from cold and effort, but each motion was deliberate, a slow rhythm against the sharp chaos around him.
Harper nudged Ambrosia and nodded toward him. "See that? That's what I call focus. That hide is gonna last a lifetime. Or at least until we get bored and eat it."
Ambrosia laughed softly. "Focus or stubbornness. Either way, he's not leaving a single hair behind."
A few workers grunted, hauling hides over the racks, stacking others beside the fires to cure. One man knocked a chunk of salt from a bucket into the snow, muttering something about "damn wind," which disappeared in the crackle of burning wood. Another slipped, cursing as his boots sent a smear of blood and fat across the packed earth. Harper snorted, muffling it in her scarf, while Ambrosia shook her head.
The girls made their way closer to the largest fire, where two braziers flanked a sturdy wooden frame. On it hung a series of stretched hides, some soaked with sugar, some dotted with salt, and others already smoking lightly from the embers. The scent was pungent but earthy, the primal smell of survival, raw and honest in a way no mess hall breakfast could ever match.
"You know," Harper said, leaning against a post as she sipped from the mason jar, "I've always wondered how they got this stuff to taste like anything but bitter leather when they first started tanning."
Ambrosia laughed, the sound swallowed briefly by the roar of one of the fires. "Trial and error, mostly. And a lot of prayers to whatever gods don't exist. Honestly, this isn't that bad. The sugar and salt work, and the smoke hides a lot of sins."
One of the younger tanners glanced up at them, wiping his hands on a rag, leaving a streak of black on his sleeve. "You girls here to help, or just stare?"
Harper's eyes sparkled. "Depends on the pay. Or the stories." She gestured toward Ambrosia, grinning. "And the company."
Ambrosia smirked, nudging Harper lightly with her elbow. "Company's fine. You're stuck with me today."
The two girls moved closer to the racks, brushing aside a small cloud of smoke that drifted too low in the wind. They watched as Eder pulled a hide down carefully, placing it over another rack to cure in the sun's weak, filtered light. He sprinkled a light dusting of sugar over the surface, then patted the edges firmly, making sure it absorbed evenly.
"You ever notice how methodical he is?" Harper whispered, watching Eder work. "Like he's afraid of missing a spot. I bet he dreams about sugar and salt."
Ambrosia chuckled, shaking her head. "He probably does. Or hides it from us. Men like that always do."
Close by, a group of tanners worked on smaller animal hides, scraping fat and flesh carefully with curved knives. Sparks from their fires shot up in the air, landing on snow crusted with smoke, making tiny sizzles and hisses. One worker dropped a chunk of fat onto a log, and it rolled, bouncing along the snow with a wet slap. Harper flinched and laughed.
"God, that's disgusting," she said, brushing her hands together.
Ambrosia rolled her eyes. "Welcome to survival, sweetheart. This is the smell of life in the State House. Take it in."
Harper leaned closer to one of the smaller fires, holding her hands out. "It's cold out here, but this…" She waved at the racks and fires. "…this is warmth. Smells like food before you eat it, even."
A low grunt drew their attention. One tanner, struggling with a particularly stiff hide, cursed as it slipped from his hands, sliding into the snow. The group around him laughed lightly, not cruelly, but with that hard edge of exhaustion and shared struggle. Harper nudged Ambrosia.
"See? Humor survives too," she said, smiling.
Ambrosia took another cigarette from her pocket, lighting it and inhaling, as she blew out a puff of smoke. "Humor and frostbite. Both come free with the State House experience."
The girls moved between racks, watching as workers salted and sugared hides, then held them over small fires to smoke them lightly, the combination locking in flavor, toughness, and preservation. The work was backbreaking, the cold seeping through gloves and jackets, yet everyone moved with a rhythm that made sense only in the chaos of winter survival.
Harper crouched briefly to examine a hide Eder had just finished. She ran a gloved hand along its surface, feeling the subtle stiffness from curing, the faint residue of smoke clinging. "This will last a month in the snow, easy. Maybe two if the wolves don't get it first."
Ambrosia shook her head. "Two months? Harper, even a wolf would hesitate to gnaw that. You'd need a pack of them."
They both laughed, the sound carrying over the courtyard. The wind tugged at their coats and scarves, but it was momentarily forgotten as the fires popped and hissed, sparks rising and vanishing into the gray sky.
A small child, no older than ten, moved between the racks carrying buckets of sugar, stepping carefully to avoid the flames. She dropped one bucket slightly, and sugar spilled across the snow, glinting like frost under the dim light. Harper bent down to help her gather it, smiling warmly.
"You're too small to be doing this alone," Harper said gently.
"Ma'am, I can handle it!" the girl replied, her voice defiant yet soft.
Ambrosia leaned on a nearby post, hands crossed, watching the exchange. "They all grow up fast here," she murmured.
Harper nodded. "Faster than we ever did. Faster than they should."
They stood there for a long moment, sipping from the mason jar, watching smoke curl around their fingers and disappear into the cold air. Around them, the tanners worked tirelessly, a living rhythm of survival, grit, and stubborn life. Each hide, salted, sugared, smoked, and stretched, was a small victory against the harshness of winter and the world outside the walls.
"You know," Harper said finally, nudging Ambrosia, "this isn't so bad. Could be worse. Could be hunting in the snow with frostbite and wolves."
Ambrosia laughed softly, the wind carrying it off toward the walls. "Yeah. Could be worse."
They shared another swig from the mason jar, standing shoulder to shoulder in the cold, watching the fires, the hides, and the people who kept the State House alive. And for a moment, the smoke and salt and sugar weren't just work—they were proof of life.
——-
The snow crunched under boots as Harper and Ambrosia approached the motor pool, the cold wind slicing along their collars and scarves. Even here, inside the walls, the winter had not been tamed; it clawed through gaps in the corrugated metal roofing and around the edges of the vehicles parked in uneven rows.
The carport loomed over them: roughly 25 feet by 25 feet, a skeletal frame of steel beams supporting corrugated iron panels that rattled faintly in the wind. Beneath it, a single truck had been jacked up, tires removed, engine exposed, the smell of grease and hot metal mixing with the faint metallic tang of snow that had blown inside the structure.
Around the truck, a small crew of three worked in a precise rhythm: one bent over the engine, socket wrench moving in tight, practiced circles; another balanced a jack under the chassis; the third organized tools on a wooden bench nearby. Every few minutes, a low curse would escape, soft but punctuated by the clang of metal against metal.
Oliver, the master mechanic, stood near the engine, sleeves rolled up despite the cold, tattoos creeping along his forearms, knuckles blackened with grease. His dark hair hung damp across his forehead, eyes narrowed in concentration. Every so often he barked an order, precise and deliberate, as if each movement mattered more than the world outside the walls.
Harper and Ambrosia stopped at the edge of the carport, letting the scene soak in. Harper's eyes flicked across the vehicles lined up outside: trucks, jeeps, stripped-down sedans, a few snowplow attachments leaning against the wall. Some had been cannibalized for parts, engines removed and stacked in piles. Others were nearly whole, coated in a thin layer of ice and snow, frost etching patterns across windows and hoods.
"You know," Harper said, tipping the mason jar toward her lips, "I've always thought vehicles were alive in winter. You watch 'em sit there, frozen, and you swear they're plotting to eat us or bolt into the forest."
Ambrosia snorted. "They're just stubborn metal, Harper. Not a wolf. Not yet, anyway." She rubbed her hands together, warmth from the friction fighting the cold that had seeped into her gloves.
Oliver looked up from the truck and waved them over. "About time you two showed your faces," he said, voice low and rough but carrying an edge of amusement. "You here to waste time, or do you actually have work for me?"
Harper grinned, shifting the mason jar between her hands. "You tell me, Ollie. We want to see what parts you actually need for the rest of the fleet."
Ambrosia stepped closer, eyes scanning the area. "We're mostly just checking inventory, seeing if there's anything critical we need to pass to James and David. Plus, we figured we could check on the truck repair progress."
Oliver nodded, gesturing toward the engine. "This one's going to be ready by midday. Eder helped strip the old bearings yesterday, so it's just reassembly and testing. I've got enough engines to last the winter, but this one's priority." He wiped a greasy hand on his pants, leaving a dark streak.
Harper leaned forward slightly, voice playful. "Priority? Sounds serious. What if we stole it while you weren't looking?"
Oliver shot her a flat glare, lips twitching in the corner. "You try that, and I'll make sure it's the last truck you ever touch."
Ambrosia chuckled quietly. "I don't think she'd get far with all the snow anyway."
The girls moved through the motor pool, boots crunching, weaving between vehicles lined up in circles and rows. Some had their hoods open, engines frozen stiff; others were stripped of doors or panels, exposing bare frames and jagged edges of metal. Piles of tires, spare engines, and boxes of scrap parts cluttered the edges of the carport, stacked high enough to almost create walls.
Harper crouched near one of the stripped-down jeeps, running her gloved fingers over the rusted frame. "You know, I've been thinking… We could rig a few of these for quick transport, even in the snow. Maybe turn them into sleds or snow haulers."
Ambrosia shook her head, amused. "You always think bigger, Harper. I like that about you." She adjusted her jacket, pulling it tighter around her torso as the wind gusted through the carport. "But leave Oliver alone. He doesn't need your bright ideas messing with his work."
Oliver overheard her, raising a greasy hand in mock surrender. "Hey, I like bright ideas. Just not ones that burn out bearings." He crouched down, adjusting a belt on the truck's engine, then straightened, giving a small nod. "Look, as long as it runs in snow and doesn't blow up, I don't care how you do it."
Harper grinned, tipping her jar toward him. "See? You just need the right persuasion."
Ambrosia rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, but the corner of her mouth lifted.
They moved toward a set of workbenches stacked with spare tires, belts, and assorted car parts. One bench had a box of spark plugs, another a pile of brake pads and fuel hoses, each item labeled and sorted carefully. Oliver's crew worked silently around them, the rhythm of wrenches, hammers, and muffled curses forming a rough cadence in the cold air.
"You got enough fuel?" Harper asked, eyes sweeping over the stacked barrels.
Oliver glanced toward the supply area. "Enough to last the next month at least, barring a total disaster. That's why I'm picky with this stuff. Don't want any fuel wasted or misused."
Ambrosia nodded, taking mental notes. "And tires? Enough spare stock?"
"Enough for every truck we've got, plus some for the old jeeps. I've been stockpiling parts for months. Don't worry."
Harper sighed dramatically, leaning on a post, boots scraping against the packed snow. "Look at you, prepared. I'm impressed. Still, a little fear makes life interesting."
Ambrosia laughed, glancing at Harper. "Yeah, fear and frostbite. But mostly fear."
The wind gusted again, sending fine snow swirling around their faces as Oliver moved to a different vehicle. He gestured toward a smaller work crew, assigning them tasks with crisp, clipped commands. Sparks flew from a welding torch as one worker joined the metal frame of a stripped truck, the blue sparks fading into the gray light of the winter afternoon.
Harper and Ambrosia observed quietly, letting the rhythm of work fill the silence between them. It was a world of grease, snow, metal, and fire—gritty and raw, but alive.
"So," Harper said finally, nudging Ambrosia, "anything we need to pass on to James or David?"
Ambrosia glanced over the benches and vehicles, noting a few fuel lines and a set of spark plugs. "A few spare belts, one of the older tires, and maybe this fuel filter. Otherwise, they're in good shape."
Oliver overheard and raised an eyebrow. "See? Told you, plenty of stock. Just keep your hands off my tools unless you know what you're doing."
Harper smirked. "No promises."
Ambrosia chuckled, shaking her head. "You'll get him eventually, Harper."
The girls moved past the truck under repair, brushing against the metal and snow, their gloves leaving faint streaks. Fires from the tanneries still drifted faintly in the distance, smoke and smell mingling with the cold, metallic scent of engines and oil. The motor pool was alive with purpose, a small oasis of survival and stubbornness in the frozen landscape.
Harper took one last sip from her mason jar, the alcohol burning a welcome trail down her throat. "Alright, let's get these notes to James and David, then maybe find something else to break today."
Ambrosia shook her head, a faint smile on her lips. "You're impossible. But I guess that's why I like you."
Harper grinned, raising her jar in mock salute. "Exactly."
The two women turned toward the exit of the motor pool, snow crunching under their boots, ready to move on to the next part of the compound—one small slice of life in the winter-bound fortress of the State House, surrounded by fire, metal, and the persistent, raw heartbeat of survival.
——
The snow pressed against their boots as Harper and Ambrosia made their way through the courtyard, the wind biting through layers and tugging at scarves. The smell of smoke and burning wood from the pyre lingered, mingling faintly with the metallic scent of the motor pool still clinging to the air. Harper's hands were wrapped around the mason jar, warming them between sips, while Ambrosia tugged her gloves tighter, jaw set against the chill.
"Harp? I just… thought of something," Ambrosia said quietly, voice almost lost to the wind, leaning closer as they moved.
Harper's lips curled into a mischievous grin. "Oh? I love it."
Ambrosia shot her a sideways glance, eyes narrowing slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "What's your blood type?"
Harper blinked, momentarily taken aback. "A positive. Why?" Her tone carried half-amusement, half-curiosity, like she was already bracing for whatever odd thought Ambrosia was about to share.
Ambrosia's stride slowed, gaze fixed on Harper as if the answer mattered more than the snow slipping past them. "Just curious… I get bored sometimes in the infirmary. When people come in, we test them for different things with the supplies Arden and the others got a few months back from the hospital raid… well, we test blood types, using the INC Blood Type Test Kits. It's part of… being prepared. Seeing who's compatible with who in case something bad happens."
Harper shrugged lightly, a small smile tugging at her lips, but her brow furrowed slightly as the thought registered. "Okay… and?"
Ambrosia hesitated, glancing toward the box trucks where small crowds were milling about, weapons being signed in and out, trade chatter floating through the air. The sound of metal clinking, boots crunching on packed snow, and faint laughter from the survivors mixed together like a chaotic symphony of survival.
"Just… no one we've tested has O positive blood," Ambrosia said finally, voice dropping a little. "That's weird, right?"
Harper cocked her head, the wind pulling her hair across her face. "Weird… how? You mean statistically weird, or like, the universe is messing with us?"
Ambrosia bit her lip, fiddling with the zipper of her jacket. "Both, I guess… It's not common to not find a single person with it, especially in a group this large. I don't know… it just got me thinking."
Harper smirked, stepping over a patch of ice. "So, what… you want to go digging through everyone's veins today? You planning a blood drive?"
Ambrosia laughed softly, shaking her head. "No… just noting. I figure, if it comes down to needing a transfusion or something, we better know our options." She gave Harper a side glance, a faint teasing glint in her eye, but it was tempered by the practicality that survival demanded.
"Noted," Harper said, taking a long swig from the mason jar. She brushed snow off her shoulders, eyes scanning the box truck area. "Speaking of options…"
The trucks were lined up in rows, engines hoods closed on some, open on others, people leaning over to trade parts or weapons. A few were unloading crates of ammo, while a couple of men argued over the relative merits of an older rifle versus a freshly scavenged one. One survivor swore loudly after losing a knife in a trade, prompting another to laugh and tease him for being terrible at bartering.
Ambrosia tucked her gloves further up her wrists, eyes flicking over the activity. "Looks busier than I thought it would be this early. Everyone's got a job today."
Harper's gaze softened slightly, a rare moment of calm in the chaos. "Yeah… this is the part I like. Everyone moving, doing something that matters. Makes the cold hurt less."
Ambrosia smiled, the warmth in her eyes contrasting with the winter chill. "And… makes people remember we're still alive."
Harper nodded, shoulders relaxing slightly. Then she leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Hey… just so we're clear. Your curiosity about my blood type? That stays between us, yeah?"
Ambrosia's smile widened. "Of course." Her tone carried a soft authority, subtle and firm. "It's just… practical."
Harper chuckled, shaking her head. "Practical. Sure. That's what I'll tell everyone." She winked, then gestured toward the first truck where a sergeant was overseeing the sign-in process. "Speaking of practical… time to see what they've got going on with these trucks."
The women made their way through the crowd, weaving past survivors hefting crates, trading ammo, or inspecting rifles. Some waved as Harper passed, familiarity and camaraderie in the winter-hardened faces. The smell of oil and frostbitten metal mixed with the lingering tang of wood smoke from nearby fires, the wind curling it through the rows of vehicles.
A sergeant stood by the open back of a box truck, clipboard in hand, marking off names as survivors brought weapons to swap or update. Harper nudged Ambrosia, nodding toward the scene. "Looks like Lieutenant's out sick. Fever or something, right?"
Ambrosia glanced over briefly. "Yeah… got it bad. Couldn't even make it to breakfast this morning."
Harper grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Well, that makes life easier for me, doesn't it?"
Ambrosia rolled her eyes, shaking her head, but there was an undercurrent of laughter in her expression. "You're impossible."
Harper shrugged, leaning against the edge of the truck. "Yeah… and you love it."
Ambrosia's gaze softened just slightly, catching Harper's playful smirk in the pale winter light. "Maybe. But don't push your luck."
The wind gusted through the courtyard, brushing against their jackets and tossing Harper's hair across her face. She reached for her mason jar again, taking a long sip, then held it out for Ambrosia.
"Careful," Ambrosia said softly, taking the jar. "Wouldn't want to waste precious warmth in the cold."
Harper laughed, brushing the snow from her gloves, then nodded toward the sergeant. "Come on… let's see what parts they need, then we can get moving. We've got a full day ahead."
Ambrosia followed, hands tucked in her pockets, eyes scanning the trucks and the organized chaos of sign-ins, trades, and inventory checks. Her thoughts lingered on the oddity of blood types for a moment, then she shook it off, focusing on the practical—on survival, on preparation, on the rhythm of the State House and its people, alive and moving even in the dead of winter.
Harper nudged her lightly. "Still thinking about the O positives?"
Ambrosia shrugged. "Maybe… but not enough to ruin a good day."
Harper grinned again. "Good. Then let's see what we can't break today."
The two women moved into the heart of the box truck area, the snow crunching underfoot, the wind pressing cold against their faces, and the quiet, intimate understanding between them staying just beneath the surface—shared, unspoken, a small thread of warmth against the winter and the work that waited.
——
Snow drifted in lazy spirals through the courtyard as Harper and Ambrosia approached the open box truck. Each step crunched over frost-crusted gravel. The muted gray of the winter sky pressed down, snowflakes sticking to hoods and gloves. Around them, muted murmurs, clanging of metal on metal, and the occasional bark of a command echoed across the compound. A distant shot rang — probably a guard practicing — ricocheting off stone walls and the hollow spaces of half-buried debris.
Harper tugged her coat tighter, eyes scanning the activity around the truck. Ambrosia's dark red hair peeked from her hood as she adjusted her scarf, glancing at the neatly stacked rifles and crates of ammunition.
The back of the box truck was open, the three men inside moving with a practiced rhythm: rifles passed down, magazines counted, ammo boxes inspected for missing rounds. Outside, long plastic tables held meticulously organized gear: rifles, magazines, primers, lubricants, gunpowder, and miscellaneous parts. At the far end, a woman sat with a clipboard, logging every item handed out.
"Morning," Harper called, stepping toward the tables.
The woman looked up, eyes sharp and appraising. "Morning. You're here for supplies?"
"Just checking in," Harper said. "See what's out and what needs replenishing."
One of the men inside the truck, grease smudging his jawline, leaned out. "Stock's stable. Plenty of rifles, ammo, and tools. But we've got some specific requests."
Ambrosia tilted her head, curious. "Specific?"
The man held up a small crate. "Ten extra firing pins for M1911s, sealed. A dozen high-grade primers — the small type for .22s. And a batch of WD‑40 cans with sprayers intact."
Harper raised an eyebrow. "Wow. You're picky today."
The woman at the table smirked. "It's not picky if you want things to work. And Oliver—he wants a small batch of cleaned, lubricated extractor springs for AR-15s. Nobody's messing with those in the field if they're faulty."
Ambrosia nodded. "Got it. Anything else?"
"Yeah," the younger man inside added, lifting a small cardboard box. "Three boxes of .45 Colt shells, ten extra bolt handles for the hunting rifles, and some high-vis tape for marking rounds when we split mags."
Harper glanced at Ambrosia and muttered, "You think they want us to personally deliver the whole arsenal?"
Ambrosia smirked. "I wouldn't put it past them."
Harper leaned closer, voice low, just between the two of them. "You think O-positive blood can fix a jammed rifle?"
Ambrosia blew out a stream of smoke and snorted. "Only if you really believe in magic, Harper."
A metal clang from inside the truck drew their attention: a crate had fallen over, spilling rounds across the floor. One of the men muttered under his breath while picking them up, a small puff of smoke drifting from his cigarette.
"Just making sure everything's accounted for," Harper said aloud, stepping closer to the table. "What's running low?"
The woman behind the clipboard tapped a pen against her log. "Honestly, just the sprayer tips on the WD‑40. Everything else is stable, but we'll need a fresh batch of cleaning rods for the ARs soon. Oliver wants them inspected before tomorrow's rounds."
Ambrosia's eyes flicked across the pile of rifles, rifles stacked in perfect rows, magazines aligned like soldiers at attention. "Looks like the winter patrols won't go short anytime soon."
Harper grinned. "Yeah, and I guess that's why they're asking for these very particular bits. Keeps the weapons running smooth. And everyone alive."
The woman smiled faintly. "Exactly. You'll notice the little things when you start handing out ammo in the snow with frost in your fingers."
Harper's eyes caught a line of people waiting patiently, murmuring about parts and magazines. "Do you ever get bored just logging everything?" she asked quietly.
The woman shrugged. "Not when it matters. Someone's life can depend on it. And besides, we've got work to do outside. Oliver expects everything ready before the sun sets."
Ambrosia adjusted her gloves, smirking at Harper. "Sounds like a lot of fun. Want to go grab those extractor springs first?"
Harper's grin widened. "Oh, I love it. Secret mission, blood type and all."
The two women moved down the line, noting what was available and cross-checking their list with the logs. Around them, the snow fell steadily, muffling the sharp edges of conversation and laughter. Fires from nearby repair crews hissed and smoked, scenting the courtyard with wood and grease. The distant clanging of tools and the rhythmic thump of boots on frozen earth punctuated the air.
As they reached the end of the table, Harper nudged Ambrosia. "And that's it, just hand the list off to David and James"
Ambrosia gave a sly grin, shaking her head. "Lead the way, fearless one."
The two slipped through the crowd, the rhythmic chatter, smoke, and snow blending into the steady heartbeat of the State House courtyard.
—————————————————————-
The evening was already settling into itself, a deep bruised purple sky curling into the edges of the State House walls, snow thickening into steady sheets that clung to every surface and drifted along the frozen courtyard. The wind came in through the trees with a sharp, biting edge, curling around the parapets, rattling the iron of the gates, and catching loose scarves and snow on the edge of the pyre's glow. Ambrosia moved through it, boots crunching softly on the compacted snow, the scent of pine smoke from the pyre mixing with the harsher tang of the horses in the stables.
Harper was beside her, scarf flapping around her neck like a banner, boots kicking up soft arcs of snow that hung in the air before settling silently. Her usual grin was present, but there was a tautness to the line of her jaw, the way her eyes scanned the tree line. The storm made everything sharper—the edges of the shadows stretched farther across the courtyard, and the snow reflected every light and shadow in a harsh, pale glow.
"Think they're late?" Harper's voice carried just enough warmth to cut through the cold, teasing but edged with a flicker of concern.
Ambrosia kept her gaze on the horizon where the treeline met the low clouds, the wind carrying with it a faint crunch that might have been branches breaking or something heavier moving. "They're fine," she said carefully. "Horses aren't slow, even in this mess." She kept her tone steady, but the tightness in her stomach betrayed her uncertainty. There was something different in the air tonight; it wasn't just the storm.
A distant rhythm of hooves broke through the cold, drawing their attention. First one shadow emerged, dark and irregular against the shifting gray-white of the snow. Then two more. Ambrosia's pulse jumped, her hand tightening around the strap of her satchel almost unconsciously. Harper's eyes lit up, but even she didn't move until the riders drew closer, three silhouettes becoming distinct: Arden leading, Kael to his left, Reddin on the right.
The horses plowed through the snow, nostrils flaring, breath steaming in clouds that mingled with the flakes drifting down. Arden's tall figure was tense, his shoulders squared and stiff as he guided his mount with controlled movements. Kael's usual carefree swagger was gone, replaced by a taut alertness that suggested he'd been scanning the horizon, expecting trouble. Reddin rode quietly, silently, his posture almost imperceptibly rigid, but his eyes swept constantly over the courtyard.
Ambrosia's breath caught. There was something in their energy — a tension that could not be faked. They weren't coming back from a leisurely patrol; they had seen things.
Harper stepped forward, loud and playful as always. "Arden! Kael! Reddin! Finally!" She waved, boots crunching in the snow, attempting to mask her worry with familiar energy. "We were just getting bored!"
Arden's horse slowed, nostrils flaring as the animal's breath came in heavy plumes. Arden dismounted, boots crunching on the snow, and held out a hand to steady the horse. Kael followed, stepping down with a smooth, practiced ease, though his hands flexed briefly on the reins — alert, even in casual posture. Reddin dismounted last, silent, giving Ambrosia a quick glance, sharp and fleeting, but enough to make her stomach flutter in ways she didn't entirely understand.
"Evening," Arden called over the wind, voice carrying but even, carefully controlled. His eyes swept the courtyard, and Ambrosia felt the weight behind them. Something had happened out there. Something he wasn't ready to share.
Harper bounded forward, brushing snow from her shoulders. "So? Did you kill the bear? Or… what happened?" Her tone was playful, but the crease between her brows betrayed her doubt.
"Just a bear," Arden replied, voice even, almost rehearsed. "We handled it. No one else was hurt. Everything's under control." He looked at Kael and Reddin, letting them nod once each in silent confirmation. The lie was easy, meant to soothe, meant to keep the others from panic. But Ambrosia caught the subtle microexpressions: the tense jaw, the hand flexing around the reins, the slight flare of nostrils — the small, human tells of someone who had been faced with something that unsettled even them.
Harper blinked, uncertainty flickering across her face. "Right. Bear. Sure. Sounds like a fun little field trip," she said, voice light but with a tremor that betrayed her unease. She glanced at Kael, who offered a small, darkly humorous grin.
"Absolutely," Kael said, voice low but sharp. "Nothing like frosty extremities to remind you what survival feels like." The humor couldn't disguise the constant scanning of the horizon, the eyes that caught every movement of the snow and shadow alike.
Ambrosia followed Arden as he led the horses toward the stables, the scent of animal mixing with the cold, a pungent reminder of life and labor. She couldn't resist sneaking a glance at Reddin, who moved with quiet grace, calm yet alert, every muscle coiled and ready. There was a subtle tension in him, the kind that suggested he carried knowledge he didn't intend to share, and yet, in that moment, he allowed himself a soft glance in her direction. Her chest tightened, a mix of nerves and something warmer threading through her thoughts.
"You're quiet," Harper murmured beside her. "Don't tell me that bear scared you."
Ambrosia shook her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "Not scared. Just… noticing." Her gaze lingered on Arden, Kael, and Reddin, noting the subtle tells: Arden's rigid posture, Kael's alertness behind the playful mask, Reddin's silent observation.
"Uh-huh," Harper said, nudging her shoulder. "Noticing things… or maybe you've got a thing for the broody one." She cast a quick glance at Reddin, who turned his gaze elsewhere, pretending to inspect the courtyard wall.
Ambrosia's eyes rolled slightly, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. "Focus on keeping us alive today," she murmured. "That's harder than reading people."
They reached the pyre, the flames reflecting golden-orange across the snow, shadows stretching long and wavering. The warmth from the fire bit into her gloves and cheeks, a fleeting comfort against the cold and the tension of the day. Harper clapped her hands together, the sound sharp, breaking the hush. "Come on, Rosia. Warm up before you freeze solid. The day's almost done anyway."
Ambrosia smiled faintly, watching as Harper danced along the edge of the pyre, boots kicking up snow, the wind tugging playfully at her scarf. She felt the tension in her shoulders ease just enough, letting her breathe in the mixture of smoke, pine, and horse that filled the courtyard.
Arden motioned to Kael and Reddin. "Make sure everyone's inside. Storm's coming faster than expected. We'll brief the teams in the morning about the bear incident." His voice was calm, measured — the shield they all needed to keep the truth contained.
Harper rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath. "Strong, silent types always keeping secrets."
Ambrosia felt her stomach twist, a blend of anticipation and worry, knowing they knew more than they were saying. But she let herself step closer to the fire, letting the warmth seep into her frozen hands and face, letting Harper's antics draw a smile from her despite everything.
As the wind picked up, snow swirling around the courtyard, Ambrosia noticed Reddin's shadow pass close by. The heat from his body was almost palpable, and she felt a strange, nervous excitement in the way he moved alongside her. Even in the shadow of the storm, under the weight of the unknown, there was something steady and grounding in his presence.
Harper nudged her shoulder, eyes glinting. "So, what now? Wait for bedtime stories from the fearless leader?" she teased, smoke curling from her lips, the warmth of the mason jar pressed into her gloved hands.
Ambrosia laughed softly, shaking her head. "For now… we survive the night, keep the courtyard clear, and try not to freeze." Her gaze flicked toward Arden, Kael, and Reddin again, catching the small tells, the subtle weight of what they'd seen, and the unspoken bond that connected them all.
The snow fell steadily, thickening against the walls, drifting into corners and piles. Guards moved along the parapets, rifles held loosely but eyes sharp, tracking shadows beyond the compound. Somewhere in the distance, a faint groan or shuffle — the sound of the world outside pressing against the fragile safety of the State House.
For a moment, Ambrosia let herself sink into the sensation: the warmth of the fire, Harper's easy presence beside her, the distant rhythmic crunch of boots in the snow, the horses nuzzling in their stalls, the soft, tense movements of Arden, Kael, and Reddin as they tended their mounts. The storm would pass. The night would pass. And for now, inside the walls, there was a fragile, golden-orange comfort to be found.
But beneath it all, she knew — the truth of the "bear" lingered, coiled and patient, waiting for the right moment to reveal itself.
And she would be ready.
—————————————————————
The snow had been relentless for hours, driven into drifts against the State House's thick walls. Outside, the courtyard was nearly buried, the wind gnawing at anyone daring enough to be out there. Inside, the massive mess hall — nearly the size of a school gymnasium — throbbed with life. Lamps flickered along the high rafters, casting pools of golden light over the long tables and benches that stretched almost endlessly across the hall. The scent of coffee, smoke, and fried meats lingered, mingling with the tang of gun oil and leather. Even beneath the chaos, there was a pulse to it — a rhythm of survival that beat stronger than the wind howling beyond the walls.
At the head of the room, Arden stood, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back. The weight of authority rested in his stance, though fatigue etched faint lines across his face. Every soul in the State House was here, pulled from their corners, kitchens, workshops, and sleeping quarters. Arden had even forced Bob and Eli from their self-imposed dungeons in the workshop and laboratory, a rare command that left the pair blinking at each other in quiet resignation. Guards had been recalled from the towers, scavenger and patrol teams ordered back. Outside, the storm pressed against the walls, but inside, the hall hummed with tension and the muted clatter of survival.
Ambrosia leaned slightly against one of the tables, her half-empty coffee mug in hand. The smell of the brewing storm outside had followed her in through the open doors, mixing with the warmth and noise of the crowd. She caught sight of Harper, who was perched confidently on Kael's lap, smirking as he tried to maintain composure while she leaned forward to whisper some teasing remark. Reddin sat quietly nearby, a careful observer, shoulders tense, his hands folded loosely on his knees. The black panther, Veyra, lay close at his feet, alert even in the chaos, the faint twitch of her tail betraying her watchfulness.
"Where's prettygirl at?" Harper asked with a mischievous grin, nodding at Reddin.
His face warmed immediately, the faintest hint of rose coloring his cheeks.
"Right here," Ambrosia's voice cut through the din, steady and teasing. "Settle your panties down, or does Kael have them in his grip?"
Kael chuckled, brushing a hand over Harper's shoulder as she smoked a cigarette, eyes gleaming in the lamp light. Ambrosia caught the glance, then found herself moving closer to Reddin, letting her hand brush against his as she slipped onto his lap with practiced ease.
Around them, the hall pulsed with motion. Survivors swapped cigarettes in quick, surreptitious exchanges; a group of young men haggled over ammunition, whispering numbers and trading tins of powdered food in exchange for bullets; a pair of women argued over a set of knives, each trying to claim the sharper set without drawing too much attention from the crowd.
A trio of teenagers laughed quietly near a corner, tossing coins to see who would carry a full crate of coffee beans from the storage room.
"Damn it, I lost again!" one of the boys cried, stamping his boot against the wooden floor.
"You're just clumsy, man," his friend shot back, pushing the crate slightly closer. "Now pay up — two cans of beans, or the rest of your rations get split."
Not far away, a man leaned over a crate of ammunition, shaking his head. "This batch is damp. Don't even bother giving me the rifle, I'll have to dry it first."
Another muttered, "Better than nothing," shrugging and passing him a tin of dried meat. The man accepted it with a nod, tucking it under his arm as he returned to his table.
Amid the movement, Arden's voice finally cut through the chaos. Strong, low, and commanding, it drew the crowd's attention without raising in volume.
"Everyone," he said, stepping forward, the hall slowly quieting as even the most stubborn of chatterers turned their heads. "We're calling this meeting for a reason. Tonight, every patrol, every scavenger, every team — you're all staying inside. No one leaves until we've spoken. The State House is united under this roof."
The snow outside thumped against the windows, a relentless percussion, while the people inside murmured in reaction. Bob glanced toward Eli, a faint smirk shared between them before they moved to a table nearer the front. The rest of the hall shifted, some settling onto benches, others standing, leaning against tables or each other.
Harper leaned against Kael, taking a slow drag from her cigarette, eyes scanning the room. "I swear," she muttered, "he looks more like a general than a damn survivor tonight."
Kael's grin was playful, yet protective. "And we're lucky he trusts us to survive with him."
Ambrosia let her gaze wander, taking in the subtle details: the scratches on the tables from countless knives and tools, the scent of boiled rabbit mixing with smoke and gun oil, the whispers of deals being struck and favors promised across crowded benches. Even in enforced attention, the undercurrent of life remained — trading, gossiping, and quiet jokes woven through survival.
Near the back, a small group of survivors played cards on a crate. One lost a hand and slammed his fist down, cursing under his breath. "Son of a bitch, I had a straight!"
"Luck wasn't on your side," said another, leaning back with a grin. "Now hand over that tin of powdered milk. You owe me."
On the other side of the hall, a woman checked names on a clipboard, ticking off the distribution of weapons, ammo, and ration packs. "Here, two boxes of shells for you. Make sure you're careful with them," she said, glancing at a young man who nodded quickly, tucking them into his pack.
Amid the organized chaos, Arden's presence held the room together. Though he didn't single anyone out, his gaze swept the hall, noting supply trades, whispered arguments, and quiet laughter alike. People adjusted, shifted, or froze slightly as his eyes passed, a subtle reminder of the fragile order inside the storm.
Harper nudged Ambrosia with an elbow, smirking. "Looks like a normal night at the circus, doesn't it?"
Ambrosia shook her head with a quiet laugh. "Yeah… normal, but somehow, worse."
Kael's arm wrapped casually around Harper, drawing her closer as she blew out smoke, while Reddin remained quiet, hands clasped in his lap, Veyra at his feet like a shadow. Ambrosia let her eyes linger on him for a moment, noticing the subtle tension in his shoulders, the quiet awareness that marked him — always alert, always present.
As the meeting began in earnest, Arden finally spoke, his tone even but firm. "We've had reports of an attack outside the State House earlier today. Patrols have confirmed it was a bear. The animal has been dealt with. No one else is at risk. That is all you need to know tonight."
A ripple of relief passed through the crowd, but Ambrosia noticed the faintest tightness around Kael's jaw and the way Reddin's eyes didn't quite meet hers. They knew the truth, even if the others didn't.
Harper tilted her head, blowing smoke upward as she leaned against Kael, whispering to Ambrosia with a sly smile. "Looks like someone else knows more than we do, huh?"
Ambrosia just smirked, taking another sip of coffee, letting the warmth seep through her bones. Around them, the hall hummed with life — whispers, laughter, haggling, and the rhythmic shuffle of survival. Arden's words were a command, but the people here, even in obedience, were still living, still breathing, still human.
——
A few moments into the murmured chaos of the crowd, a sharp, gravelly voice cut through, forcing heads to snap in unison.
"EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP!" Bob barked, his hands gripping the edge of the table, cigarette dangling loosely from his lips as the last of the murmurs faded into an uneasy silence.
A couple of kids blinked up at him, a few adults muttered under their breaths, but no one dared speak. Even the trading and bartering slowed, paused mid-motion, as Bob's rare display of authority rang louder than any lamp or whistle could.
Arden stepped forward, his boots scraping softly against the worn wooden floor, hands clasped behind him once more. The room leaned into him instinctively. The hum of the mess hall faded to a near-palpable hush, broken only by the occasional shuffle of feet or the faint hiss of the woodstove near the kitchen entrance.
"Thank you," Arden said simply, his voice steady, calm, but carrying the weight of someone used to being listened to. He paused for just a moment, letting the silence settle, the faint smell of smoke and fried meat lingering. "I wanted to take a few minutes to address all of you. Tonight, I don't just speak as your leader — I speak as one of you, someone who sees the effort, the sweat, and the work being done every day. And I'll say it plainly: you've all been doing exceptionally well."
Heads lifted slightly, some smiles breaking the tension. Among them, Harper nudged Ambrosia with her elbow, whispering, "Finally, someone giving out compliments instead of death threats."
Arden continued, voice even but firm, eyes sweeping the room like the hands of a meticulous clock. "Team 6 — Jade's team — discovered two warehouses beyond Bishop that hadn't been raided yet. Once the snow settles, they'll check them out. Everyone else, continue your work, but do so with caution."
He allowed a short pause before moving into the next point, tone dropping slightly. "There will be no hunting parties beyond Devils Ridge for the foreseeable future. Don's party was attacked by a bear earlier today — he, Reddin, and Kael dealt with it. We were lucky. I'd rather be cautious than sorry. Safety is our priority. Those of you who hunt closer to the walls — continue as usual, but maintain vigilance."
A ripple of nods moved through the crowd. Even a few of the more restless teenagers straightened slightly, realizing the severity of Arden's words.
"Supplies are ample," Arden continued, voice lifting just enough to pierce the residual murmur of whispers. "Rationing is precautionary. Winter is coming hard, but we are prepared. The vehicles we maintain will remain reserved for patrols and scavenger parties heading into Bishop. All other movements will be on horseback or on foot. That is non-negotiable. Efficiency is key — we know this."
He paused to let the information settle. Ambrosia's gaze flitted over the crowd, watching hands slide tins of food into packs, young men shifting boxes of ammo carefully as a silent nod of acknowledgment passed between them. She noted the subtle way Kael leaned over Harper's shoulder, whispering something, Harper giggling and blowing a curl of smoke into the air. Reddin sat rigid nearby, Veyra's ears flicking at the faintest creak in the rafters, all senses alert, yet his focus was squarely on Arden's words.
"The power," Arden said, lifting a finger for emphasis, "remains stable thanks to our wind turbines and solar panels. Use is limited — 5 PM to 8 AM. Kitchen staff, workshop personnel, and the communications room are exempt. That should be clear to all of you."
He let his eyes travel across the room, resting briefly on the section where young tanners were cleaning hides, their hands raw and bleeding from the salt and scrubbing. A group of women nearby traded cigarettes in quiet smirks while stacking canned food. A man near the back passed a small bundle of rifle primers to his companion, and the faint smell of curing meat from the tanners mingled with smoke, oil, and fried rabbit. Arden's gaze swept past each detail, acknowledging each small task without pause, yet giving the impression that every motion mattered.
"Finally," he said, voice lowering slightly, a rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, "the second wall is nearly finished. Thanks to all of your effort, it will stand firm long before the coldest of the winter sets in. I see you all. I know your work. It is recognized. And it is appreciated."
A cheer rose from the crowd, faint at first, then building as voices merged with laughter and the clatter of moving benches. Even Bob cracked a subtle grin, leaning back on the table, cigarette smoke curling around him like a protective haze.
Arden's gaze softened for a moment as he stepped closer to the front, looking at Kael, Reddin, and the small cluster of leaders around him. His eyes were sharp, attentive, but also tinged with the faintest relief. The State House was holding together. It was alive, and it would endure.
"And," Arden added, a sly glint in his eye, "alcohol and cigarettes are henceforth banned. Now hand them over."
A ripple of laughter surged through the mess hall as groups began exchanging mischievous glances. Harper grinned, nudging Ambrosia, whispering, "Well, that's a solid joke, huh?"
"Yeah," Ambrosia replied with a smirk, passing her cigarette behind her back to a nearby girl, who tucked it into her apron. "Classic Arden."
The hall erupted in quiet chaos once more. People swapped cigarettes for tins of coffee, ammunition for chocolate, and knives for soap — the delicate balance of barter and camaraderie resuming even under the guise of Arden's mock decree. Across the hall, a man with a rusty hatchet leaned over a bench, whispering to his companion, "Five tins of beans for this? Deal."
"Make it three, and we have a bargain," the other replied, weighing his options.
Nearby, a woman adjusted the strap of her pack while lighting a cigarette she'd just acquired, blowing smoke toward the rafters as a small group of men laughed quietly over the distribution of chocolate and dried meats.
Harper leaned back on Kael's lap, taking another drag from her cigarette as she whispered to Ambrosia, "Well, that went… surprisingly smooth."
Ambrosia's grin was faint, tired but sharp. "Smooth, until Arden starts hunting down anyone keeping a little extra alcohol for themselves."
Kael chuckled, ruffling Harper's hair lightly. "I think Arden knows most of it anyway. Might as well let the little ones have fun."
Reddin's gaze flicked toward Ambrosia, a small, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at his lips as he caught her watching him. Veyra stirred slightly at his feet but remained silent, alert. Harper noticed the glance and leaned closer, whispering something she didn't hear over the laughter of the surrounding crowd. Ambrosia rolled her eyes, smiling faintly, her fingers brushing Reddin's as she reached for a tin of powdered sugar on the table beside her.
Throughout the mess hall, the organized chaos persisted: tin cups passed back and forth, whispers over ammo trades, murmurs about scavenger trips and patrols, jokes whispered between hands of cards, the occasional laughter at someone slipping on the slick wooden floor. Arden's presence kept it tethered, but it was alive, breathing, chaotic yet orchestrated.
"Pass that pack of cigarettes here," a young man called from the back, dodging a swing of a broom wielded by a grumbling woman trying to sweep the aisle clear.
"Not until you give me that tin of coffee," came the reply, a faint smirk in his voice.
Harper leaned closer to Ambrosia, voice low. "Think he'll ever notice how many cigarettes we've snagged today?"
Ambrosia shrugged, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Not unless he's watching our every move, which… he probably is."
The mess hall continued to pulse with life, the storm outside rattling the windows as if demanding attention. Every table, every bench, every floorboard seemed to hold a story — of survival, barter, humor, and tension. Amid it all, Arden's figure remained steady at the front, guiding, watching, leading without raising his voice further.
Bob leaned back against the edge of a table, smoke curling around his head like a halo, and muttered under his breath, "This is chaos and I love it."
And for a moment, in the warmth, light, and smoke of the mess hall, surrounded by the living, Arden allowed himself to believe it was enough. That despite the storm, despite the dangers beyond the walls, despite the attacks and mutilated beasts lurking somewhere in the wilderness, they could endure. They were enduring.