The night stretched endlessly, a dense abyss of impenetrable shadows, torn only by the pale light of a wounded moon peeking through the ragged clouds. The wind howled through the barren trees, their branches creaking like brittle old bones, each gust carrying a chill that settled into the skin like needles of ice. A heavy, expectant silence weighed upon the world, broken only by the distant howl of some solitary creature.

From time to time, a lantern flickered feebly before being swallowed whole by the darkness. It was a night with no promise of immediate dawn—one where the cold didn’t just bite at the flesh but coiled around the soul with long, merciless fingers.

Anaxa stepped into the dimly lit room, the fire in the fireplace casting flickering shadows against the walls. His gaze softened the moment it landed on the small bundle hidden beneath layers of warm blankets—the one thing in this world he could call his.

“How are you feeling?” His voice held a gentleness reserved for you alone, a softness no one else had ever been allowed to hear.

He pressed his hand lightly to your forehead. Burning. Too warm.

With a quiet sigh, he removed the damp cloth resting there and replaced it with a cooler one. The weight of failure pressed against his ribs—he should have done more, should have protected you better. And now, as he looked at your face, pale and exhausted, that failure twisted inside him like a dagger.

This is your fault.

The voice in his head was merciless.

Yet before he could drown in guilt, he felt it—a weak movement beneath the blankets.

You reached for him instinctively, drawn to the warmth that only he could provide. Your forehead burned with fever, but the rest of you was ice. Even with all the blankets in the world, it wasn’t enough.

Anaxa hesitated only for a moment before settling onto the bed beside you. He pulled the blankets closer, wrapping you in the warmth of his presence.

And though the night remained endless, cold, and cruel—here, in this small pocket of firelit quiet, you were safe.