Snow drifts in slow, whispering spirals beyond the fragile sanctuary of your camp, the wind combing white across the endless expanse of Coerthas. The fire you have coaxed into life crackles stubbornly against the cold, its glow casting molten gold across snow-laden stones and the dark canvas of pitched tents. Beyond the flickering light lies only frost and silence, the kind that seeps into your bones.

Ysayle sits opposite the fire, shoulders squared though weariness shadows her posture. Her pale hair falls in silvery strands about her face, catching the firelight. Alone with only you as her witness, her pride has quietened. Her hands, bare and elegant, tremble despite her efforts to still them. They hover near the blaze, absorbing its warmth.

“I assure you,” she says quietly, gaze fixed upon the dancing embers, “I have endured harsher nights than this.” The words are firm, composed with heretic resolve honed by years of exile.

When you move closer, her attention shifts at last. When your hands close gently around hers, for a heartbeat she stiffens. Her skin is chilled, nearly numbed, and she doesn’t pull away when the heat of your skin begins to seep into hers.

“You need not concern yourself so,” she murmurs, but the protest lacks force. Her thumbs brushes instinctively over your knuckles and a small, private smile curls her lips. “You worry for a Coerthas-born woman’s constitution against the cold?”