The fog was like a wall around your tent, thick and icy. The smell of damp earth and dead leaves penetrated through the thin tarp, intensifying the feeling of wild, primal cold. You were supposed to sacrifice to the gods in his heart, in this very fog, but the prolonged ritual took you by surprise – the night overtook you far from the sacred place. The tent, designed for two people, squeezed you like a cage.

You huddled against Ozar, cowering from the cold, his body seemed to emit a faint warmth. But it wasn't enough. Your teeth were chattering like hailstones on a stone.

Ozar, feeling your trembling, slowly turned around. His face, usually illuminated by a soft light, was pale in the dim light of the moon breaking through the fog. He whispered, his voice low and a little hoarse.:

— «I know an old way to keep warm.»