The trees did not move.
The snow hung on their branches like old ghosts, thick and brittle, untouched by wind. It was the kind of cold that didn't bite—it pressed. It crushed. It reminded everything breathing that winter was not something to survive, but something to serve.
Mia moved through it like she'd trained for this moment her whole life.
Behind her, seventeen figures followed—half of them children, all of them half-starved. Some stumbled. One mother clutched her silent child beneath layers of torn fur, each breath rattling in her chest. None of them cried. There was no energy left for crying.
Mia didn't look back.
She knew the trail they left was wide, obvious—no way to hide it in snow this deep. But it didn't matter. Not now.
They were close.
She'd seen the cellar once, before the snow swallowed it. Months ago, before winter fell, when the Ikanbi walked more freely along the outer edges of their territory. She had watched them. Counted their footsteps. Measured their rhythms. She had seen the strange man—Boji, they called him—carry wrapped bundles into the cold-storage cellar carved beneath his house.
She dug slowly, secretly. Just far enough to reach the wall behind that cellar. A narrow tunnel angled through frozen soil and layered stone. Her plan had been simple: wait for snow to distract the Ikanbi, then slip in and take only what she needed.
That was before the food ran out below. Before the Duru began to break apart. Before silence replaced every whisper of hope.
Now she stood at the base of a half-buried outcrop, brushing snow from the top of the hidden shaft.
It was frozen over—solid. The wind had pushed drifts across the opening. Her fingers bled from scraping. One of the younger girls fell to her knees beside her.
"We're going to die out here," the girl said.
"No," Mia said flatly. "We're going to dig."
They did.
With hands. With sticks. With half-broken stone.
But the tunnel entrance was collapsed.
Mia stood in front of it, panting, her shoulders shaking—not from cold, but from fury.
So close.
And then—she heard it.
Crunch.
Boots in snow.
She turned, slow.
Across the clearing, two figures emerged from the tree line—wrapped in white, cloaks trailing the frost. One held a spear. The other, nothing at all.
Mia's heart thudded. She raised her arms—not in surrender, but to shield the others behind her. Her legs buckled, her vision swam, but she stayed upright.
The figure with the spear stepped forward.
Mala.
She didn't raise her weapon. She only reached out.
"You led them here," she said quietly. "That takes something."
Mia's legs gave out.
Mala caught her.
They didn't speak on the way back.
The Ikanbi sleds moved quickly, pulled by lines of warriors who didn't ask questions. The young Duru clung to each other, afraid to sit, afraid to stop.
When they arrived at the fringe shelters—just past the Red Clawed camp but still within militia reach—they were given food. Warm broth. Blankets. A place to sit.
No one was turned away.
But no one was welcomed, either.
Ben stood near Boji's cellar the next morning.
He stared at the broken snow around its entrance. The path Mia had nearly taken. The tunnel that had nearly worked.
He knelt and placed one palm on the stone wall.
Then he stood and said, to no one in particular, "This one planned. That matters."
Behind him, Ikanbi continued their quiet rhythm—moving through snow, fireless, tireless.
Winter still ruled.
But now, the cold had brought them something else:
A girl who refused to die quietly.
Ben stood near Boji's cellar the next morning.
He stared at the broken snow around its entrance. The path Mia had nearly taken. The tunnel that had nearly worked.
He knelt and placed one palm on the stone wall.
Then he stood and said, to no one in particular, "This one planned. That matters."
That afternoon, he walked to the fringe shelters alone.
Mia sat by herself, wrapped in a fur that wasn't hers, eating slow mouthfuls of broth like each one had to last the day. Her eyes didn't flinch when Ben approached. She didn't look away.
"You were watching us long before the snow," he said.
She nodded.
"You built a tunnel to our food."
Another nod.
He watched her for a moment longer, then offered a quiet command to the militia guards nearby.
"Separate her from the others. Bring her to me."
Mia didn't resist.
That night, while the rest of her people settled into guarded shelters, Mia sat cross-legged inside Ben's stone-walled house—alone, silent, under watch.
Not tortured. Not bound.
But a prisoner all the same.
Ben stood at the doorway, arms crossed.
"You led them," he said. "You'll answer for them too."
He closed the door.
Outside, snow began to fall again.
She didn't feel the cold at first.
When she climbed out of the tunnel with the others behind her, it felt like breaking free from a dream—into a nightmare that at least had space to breathe.
The snow slapped her hard. It didn't care who she was or what she planned. It just pressed down, smothering warmth, eating sound. Every step felt like pulling her legs from ice.
But Mia had imagined this. Not the exact cold, not the staggering weight of it—but the idea of it. Freedom. Escape. A chance to move, even if it meant dying on her feet instead of rotting below the earth with liars and thieves pretending to lead.
They had followed her. Seventeen of them.
Some barely more than children. Some afraid of the dark but more afraid of what was left behind.
She kept them going with whispers. With memory. With that tunnel.
She had dug that tunnel herself—dug it knowing that food, real food, lay behind it. The Ikanbi had stored it well. She had seen the strange man—Boji, they called him—roll stone lids over meat and root bundles chilled by natural ice. She had counted his trips. Marked the snow. Measured the distance.
And now, standing before it, after days of cold and hunger, the tunnel was gone. Buried. Frozen over. Useless.
She had lied to them.
No—not lied. She had hoped too loudly.
And when the girl behind her whispered that they would die out here, Mia wanted to scream—but had no breath left.
So when the Ikanbi arrived, cloaked in white, eyes sharp behind stillness, Mia had nothing left to give. No fight. No scream. Just the thought: They're going to kill us for trying.
But they didn't.
They carried her. Gave her food. Water. Blankets.
And that should have been a relief.
But it wasn't.
Because as her body warmed, she saw what she hadn't believed before: the impossible calm of Ikanbi.
They had no fire. No guards shouting orders. No scrambling for food.
They were… organized.
Children shoveled snow to clear air vents. Militia cleaned tools without being told. Even their prisoners worked in silence. No one hoarded. No one stole.
Mia had seen entire generations of Duru chew bark to survive a single week. Yet these people—these Ikanbi—had somehow survived months, maybe longer, in the open snow.
She didn't know how to process that.
It was terrifying.
And when Ben came—the tall one with eyes like frozen stone and a voice that moved without volume—she knew it was over.
He didn't yell.
He didn't even scold.
He just looked at her and said, "You were watching us long before the snow."
She nodded.
"You built a tunnel to our food."
Another nod.
Then came the sentence: "Separate her from the others. Bring her to me."
No chains. No cell.
Just a stone-walled room with woven mats, a fur blanket, and silence.
It wasn't kindness. It was control.
And that scared Mia more than the snow ever had.