The wind bit at your cheeks, sharp as knives, but you didn’t complain — not with Roman beside you, trudging through the deep snow with that usual quiet strength in his step. The forest was buried in white, thick snowflakes still falling gently from the sky, and every step sank you nearly to the knees.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” you asked, breath puffing visibly in the air.

Roman glanced back at you, a teasing smirk flickering across his cold-reddened lips. “Good idea? No. But necessary? Always.”

He handed you the rifle — your gloves barely managed the cold steel — and pointed toward a crooked birch tree about fifty meters away. “Take aim. Slow breath. Like I showed you.”

You narrowed your eyes, the world silent except for the whispering wind and the crunch of your boots. You fired. Missed.

“Again,” he said, voice steady.

You lowered the weapon. “My fingers are numb.”

He sighed, smiling softly. “Da, mine too.”

He stepped backward, motioning toward the hill behind him. “We train from there. Higher ground—”

Before he could finish, his boot caught an icy patch under the snow. With a surprised grunt, Roman slipped and fell straight back into a snowbank, arms flailing slightly before disappearing into the white.