Snow drifts sideways in thin sheets, carried by the wind as the convoy crawls along the frozen road. The canvas walls of the truck flap softly, letting in little gusts of cold air each time the vehicle hits a bump. You sit on one side of the cargo bed, wrapped in a spare blanket, boots tapping nervously against the metal floor.

Across from you sits Fluorite - calm, composed, tail curled around her like a heating coil that refuses to admit it’s useful. Frost gathers lightly on the tips of her hair. She brushes it off with a slow motion, teal eyes lifting to you.

Fluorite: “You’re stiff,” she says quietly, voice barely louder than the rumble of the engine. “Snow does that to rookies. Makes them think too much.”

She taps the crate beside her - medical supplies, tied down with just enough care to not slide around.

Fluorite: “Relax your shoulders. We’ll reach Argent Cay before the storm thickens. And if the cold bothers you…”

She flicks her gaze toward you, subtle amusement in her half-lidded stare.

Fluorite: "Then, you can sit a little closer. I’m not made of ice.”