I woke up early the next morning. It was still stormy, like she said, but we were going to be packing and making some food for the journey. The merchant was sleeping hunched over the map and had a variety of tools around her. The only one I knew at a glance was the compass, and there were a few pencils and pens.
I grabbed my wolf cloak and wrapped it tightly around myself, then went outside, quickly opening and closing the door. The wind was nice—only for a moment. What I thought was snow for a moment was actually hail, and big bits of hail at that. It didn't hurt, more like someone lightly punching you—enough for you to notice, but not enough for you to say "ouch." I grabbed a few pieces of wood and went back inside quickly.
It's not like I can't feel the cold—it's still there—I just can't feel like I'm freezing. It's a weird feeling because I'll start to shiver in the cold but not know that I'm freezing. The merchant said, "Great, someone who doesn't know they can freeze to death. That's great… Hhh. Just remember to stay warm, then."
There were still warm embers in the wood stove. You would think it would not be much harder to start a fire again with the warm embers, but the wood outside is covered in snow. What I usually do is leave some inside, but last night I forgot to bring any in. So, atop the wood stove it goes—it will dry it out and provide some moisture in the air.
While that was happening, I crouched down and began packing my bag. I packed Eloise's Journal along with my wood-carved cups. I tied my bucket to my spear to carry it. The little bits of armor I have I will be wearing. I packed my multiple-used bandages after I sterilized them one more time. I rolled up my bed made from multiple wolf pelts, along with some other small things I gathered here and there.
After some time the merchant finally woke up, and by that point the wood was mostly dry. However—
"Ivan, you had one job: to make sure the stove was burning, like you have been doing for the majority of my stay here. Now we either leave with less food or we are going to be an hour late," she said, in that angry and disappointed tone she uses.
"Sorry. I forgot to bring in wood last night."
She walked over to the wood stove and put in the wood. After some tending to the fire, the big chunks of wood began to burn. Then she began packing for the journey.
As she was packing, she asked, "If you had to choose between getting out of the snow faster or helping people, which one would you choose?"
I didn't know how to respond with anything other than the truth, so I said, "I would like to get out faster."
She looked at me, then hung her head low.
I thought she would yell at me again, but she didn't. She just stood there, her hands resting on the edge of her pack, her head bowed like my answer had weighed on her more than I meant it to. The silence was heavy. The only sound was the crackling wood as the fire caught, hissing where the snow still clung to the bark.
Finally, she said quietly, almost to herself, "So you'd leave them behind… I wonder if you'll still feel that way when it's your turn."
Her words sank into me like stones. I wanted to defend myself, to say that wasn't what I meant, but nothing came out. Instead, I pulled my wolf cloak tighter and pretended to check the straps of my pack again.
Outside, the wind howled against the walls of the cabin. The hail had slowed, but I could still hear it tapping against the roof like impatient fingers. Every sound reminded me that soon we'd be out in it, walking through white emptiness that wanted us dead.
I added the last of my things: the small bone needle I'd carved, my whetstone, the cracked mirror I used to check wounds. I held the journal for a moment before slipping it into the pack. Eloise's handwriting was smudged in places, water-damaged and fragile. Part of me wondered why I bothered to keep it—words don't keep you warm, words don't feed you—but I couldn't leave it. Not now.
The merchant was moving briskly now, her earlier heaviness replaced with something sharp. She wrapped strips of cloth around jars of dried beans and smoked fish, packing them with careful efficiency. She muttered as she worked, not to me but to herself, like she was repeating some list only she knew.
At last she snapped her pack closed and turned toward me. "We'll leave as soon as the light breaks clearer. Maybe an hour, maybe two. Until then, eat. You'll need it."
She handed me a hunk of tough bread and a strip of dried meat. I chewed slowly, the bread hard as stone, the meat salty enough to make my throat ache. But it was food, and food meant strength, so I forced it down.
When I finished, I asked, "Why did you ask me that? About helping people."
For a moment I thought she wasn't going to answer. But then she leaned against the wall, folding her arms. "Because choice is all we have out there. You think it's just about walking, about keeping your feet moving. It isn't. It's about who you carry and who you leave behind. And once you make that choice, it doesn't leave you. Not ever."
She said it like she knew from experience. Like she'd made that choice before.
I wanted to ask more, but she pushed off the wall and began tying her cloak. Conversation over.
So I just sat there, staring into the fire, listening to the storm outside and the faint creak of her boots on the floorboards. The journey hadn't even started yet, and already I felt the weight of it pressing down on me.
The storm didn't give us much mercy. When the first thin light pressed through the shutters, the merchant rose without a word, fastened her cloak, and pulled her pack onto her shoulders. I did the same, tightening the straps until they dug into me. My spear, with the bucket tied to it, felt heavier than it should have.
She opened the door, and the cold slammed into the room like a wall. The hail had turned to wet snow now, thick flakes falling in uneven curtains, carried sideways by the wind. I pulled my hood up and followed her out, shutting the door behind me. The cabin was swallowed almost instantly in the whiteness.
The ground crunched under our boots. Snow and ice cracked like glass. The world was nothing but gray and white, a horizonless blur. The only way I knew where to step was by watching her—her steady pace, her boots leaving narrow impressions for me to follow.
Every few moments she would stop, glance at the compass she carried, then keep moving. I realized how easy it would be to lose her, even just a few steps away. The storm would swallow her whole, and I would be left alone in the blinding snow.
I tried not to think about it, but the thought gnawed at me with every step.
After an hour, my cloak was stiff with frost. The wolf pelts clung to me like armor, heavy and damp. My breath hung in the air and froze on the edge of my hood. I kept shifting the strap of my pack to stop it from digging into my shoulder.
The merchant finally spoke, her voice muffled through the wind. "We'll need to reach the ridge before nightfall. There's a shelter there. If we don't make it…" she let the rest hang.
I swallowed hard and nodded, though I wasn't sure she saw.
As we walked, I noticed something strange. The storm clawed at me, snow and wind biting any place my cloak didn't cover. The flakes stung my cheeks, clung to my lashes, and numbed my fingers even through the gloves. But the merchant never flinched. She wore her mask, her hood pulled low, and every inch of her was wrapped in heavy cloth. Not a bit of skin showed. The snow slid off her cloak like it couldn't touch her at all.
I still shivered, still shook from the cold, but the bite of it wasn't there the way it should have been. It was like I was caught between freezing and not freezing, my body confused about what it should be feeling.
I wanted to tell her, to ask if something was wrong with me, but I remembered the way she'd spoken last night: great, someone who doesn't even know they can freeze to death. She'd just think me foolish again. So I stayed quiet.
We trudged on.
Hours blurred together, nothing but the rhythm of steps and the endless storm. My thoughts wandered to Eloise's journal in my pack. I wondered if she had walked through storms like this, if her hands had frozen trying to write the words I now carried. Did she think about the people she left behind? Or was she like me, just trying to get out faster?
By the time the ridge came into view—a jagged line of stone half-buried in snow—the light was already fading. The merchant's pace quickened, and I forced my legs to keep up. My lungs burned, my thighs ached, but I kept moving, because stopping wasn't an option.
When we finally reached the outcropping of rock, I thought she would let us rest, but instead she led us around to a narrow cleft in the stone. A cave mouth, shallow but out of the wind.
She ducked inside, set her pack down, and began pulling out wood. I followed, dropping mine heavily to the floor, my chest heaving. The cave smelled of damp stone, but it was still better than the open storm.
The merchant knelt and started arranging the kindling. Her movements were sharp, precise, and practiced. I wanted to help, but my hands were clumsy, half-numb. She glanced up at me once, her eyes unreadable, then back to the fire.
"Tomorrow will be worse," she said, almost like a warning. "If you thought today was hard, wait until the mountain."
Her words settled in my stomach like stones.