The space behind the Centurion's glass wall was tight.
Thirty students, three instructors, and a stove meant for five. We were packed shoulder to shoulder, a knot of shivering wool and damp fur.
The air smelled of wet wood, ozone from failed spells, and the copper tang of blood.
I sat on a crate near the entrance, where the heat faded and the wind tried to find gaps. My job wasn't to be warm. My job was to keep the door shut.
Liora moved through the press of bodies like she was in a clinic, not a frozen wasteland. She checked Aldric's bandages. She checked the girl with the broken wrist. She checked the morale, which was lower than the temperature.
"Fuel," Mira whispered, crouching beside me. "We're burning the carriage wreckage. It's painted wood. It smokes."
"It burns," I said. "That's enough."
"We have six hours until dawn," she said. "If the storm holds, we run out of wood in four."
