Snow made everything quieter.
Not peaceful—just muffled, like the world had pulled a thick blanket over itself and decided to listen more carefully.
My boots sank into the fresh layer with a soft crunch. Each step felt heavier than yesterday, not because of the pack, but because cold had a way of clinging to you. Fingers stiffened faster. Breathing came sharper. Even blinking felt slower.
Porlyusica walked ahead, same pace as always. Unbothered. Unimpressed by winter.
I followed.
Slower than before.
Careful.
After my second mistake days ago, I'd stopped rushing on instinct. Now I tested the ground first—toe, heel, weight. If the snow shifted wrong, I didn't argue with it.
Behind me, my footprints stayed neat.
Porlyusica glanced back once. Her eyes dropped to my steps, then up again.
"…You're not fighting the cold," she said.
"I'm negotiating," I replied. "Very politely."
She snorted. I took that as a win.
We paused near a rock shelf where the wind cut less harshly. Porlyusica set her pack down and began sorting through dried leaves and roots, checking their condition.
I rubbed my hands together, breath fogging the air.
"Cold?" she asked without looking up.
"A little," I admitted. "Mostly in my fingers. And my nose. And possibly my soul."
She shot me a look. "You're seven."
"I'm very seven," I agreed.
She shook her head, but her gaze lingered on my hands longer than necessary.
I flexed my fingers again.
Something felt… off.
Not bad. Just different.
The cold bit, but it didn't sink the way I expected. My palms tingled faintly, warmth spreading back quicker than it should have. Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just… persistent.
I frowned, then tested it—pressed my hands into the snow briefly.
Cold stabbed up my skin.
I pulled them back.
A few breaths later, the ache faded faster than it should've.
"…Huh," I muttered.
Porlyusica noticed immediately.
"What did you do?" she asked.
"Nothing," I said honestly. "That's what's weird."
She stepped closer, took my wrist without asking, thumb pressing lightly against my pulse.
Her brow furrowed.
"You're not circulating heat normally," she said.
"…Is that bad?"
"Not yet."
Comforting. Very comforting.
She released me and stepped back. "You're not warming yourself with magic. Your body's compensating."
I blinked. "So… my body's cheating?"
"Your body's surviving," she corrected. "There's a difference."
I grinned weakly. "I'll try not to let it get cocky."
We moved on.
The terrain shifted as we climbed—less snow, more exposed rock, thin frost clinging to shaded surfaces. Trees grew sparse. Wind picked up.
That was when Porlyusica stopped so suddenly I almost walked into her.
She raised a hand.
I froze.
At first, I heard nothing.
Then—voices.
Faint. Carried by the wind. Low, rough, not trying to hide.
I crouched instinctively.
Porlyusica's jaw tightened.
"…We're not alone," she murmured.
My stomach dropped. Not fear—alertness.
"How many?" I whispered.
"At least three," she replied. "Possibly more."
"…Friends?" I offered.
She gave me a flat look.
"Right. Silly question."
We edged toward a ridge overlooking a shallow basin.
Below us, figures moved through the snow—adults. Armed. Not monsters. People.
They wore heavy cloaks, packs loaded, movements efficient. They weren't wandering. They were searching.
One of them knelt, brushing snow aside near a rock outcrop.
The same kind Porlyusica had been studying earlier.
My pulse quickened.
"…They're after plants," I whispered.
"Yes," she said quietly. "And they're not healers."
I swallowed. "Poachers?"
"Collectors," she replied. "They sell rare things to people who don't ask questions."
One of the men laughed loudly, voice sharp in the cold.
"Nothing here!" he called. "We move north."
North.
Where we were headed.
Porlyusica's grip tightened on her staff.
"We wait," she said. "Let them pass."
I nodded immediately.
Waiting, it turned out, was harder than running.
The cold crept in while we stayed still. My fingers stiffened again, but the warmth returned, steady and stubborn. Not fast—but reliable.
I focused on breathing. Staying quiet. Not shifting weight unnecessarily.
Porlyusica watched me from the corner of her eye.
"…You're not shaking," she noted.
"I'm vibrating internally," I whispered. "Very professional."
That earned me a glare and—barely—a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
The group moved on after several tense minutes, their voices fading into the wind.
Porlyusica waited longer than necessary.
Then longer still.
Only when the valley was silent again did she straighten.
"…They'll come back," she said. "Once they realize what they missed."
I exhaled slowly. "So… competition."
"Yes."
"…Great."
She turned to me. "This is why you don't rush."
I nodded. "Noted. Again."
She studied me for a moment, eyes sharp.
"You didn't panic," she said.
"I considered it," I replied. "But it felt inefficient."
She sighed. "Stop using words like that."
"Fair."
We made camp higher up that night, sheltered between stone walls dusted with snow. The fire burned low, careful not to give us away.
I stretched near the warmth, testing my legs. Still sore. Still tired.
But not numb.
Porlyusica noticed.
"You should be colder," she said bluntly.
"Give it time?" I offered.
"No." She shook her head. "This is the second time your body's adapted without prompting."
I rubbed the back of my neck. "I swear I'm not doing it on purpose."
"I know," she replied. "That's why it concerns me."
She sat across from me, firelight casting sharp shadows on her face.
"You don't chase strength," she continued. "But your body keeps finding ways to endure."
I shrugged. "I fall over a lot."
"Yes," she said. "And you get back up."
I opened my notebook, scribbling quickly.
Cold doesn't stick the same. Body adjusts faster than expected.
Porlyusica says adaptation without control is dangerous.
Still prefer not dying.
She glanced at the page.
"…At least you're honest."
I smiled faintly.
Outside the fire's reach, something moved. Just wind. Probably.
Maybe not.
Winter pressed in closer, the valley holding its breath again.
Somewhere nearby, other people searched for the same thing we were.
And beneath the snow, beneath stone and time, something rare waited—patient, quiet, and not interested in who deserved it more.
I closed my notebook and tucked it away.
Tomorrow would be colder.
And slower.
Good.