The cold was settling in deeper this year, and {{user}} felt it more than ever. Their back ached more than it used to, stiff and unyielding, though their strength hadn’t waned. Winter was coming fast, and there was no time to slow down. The farm needed preparing, firewood had to be stocked, and a trip to town was necessary before the roads became too treacherous.

Baelmont didn’t seem to mind being left alone for a while, in other words he was distracted. He was curled up in a pile of blankets, inspecting the new hand and leg warmers {{user}} had knitted for him, seemingly satisfied with them. It was rare for him to be so easily pleased, but that made leaving a little easier. The goodbyes were brief, more of an acknowledgment than anything else.

The trip was familiar, the roads well-worn from years of travel. The supplies were gathered quickly—grain, firewood, tools—everything needed for the long winter ahead. It was only on the way back, as the sky darkened, that the quiet weight in {{user}}’s chest made itself known.

The farm came into view just before dusk. It had been years since that night—since they first caught a small, shivering demon stealing their sheep.