The wind had teeth. It bit through wool, leather, skin, and into the marrow. By the end of the first day, Toby had stopped thinking of warmth as a thing that could be found and started thinking of it as a memory one could chase.

  They rode out from Highmarsh with spirits high, breath fogging in neat little clouds, horses stamping through snow that came up to their fetlocks. The road turned from frozen mud to pale ice, from ice to blank white where even tracks vanished after an hour.

  By dusk, the world had become a colorless plain of frost and silence. They stopped at the edge of a frozen stream. Maxwell dismounted in one smooth motion, his breath slow and even. He looked up at the dim red sky, nodded once, and said, “This’ll do.”

  The squires were too cold to argue. Toby climbed off his horse, legs stiff as fence posts. His hands ached as he fumbled with the reins. Kay was trying to light a fire; Reece was struggling to drive a stake into ground hard as iron. Zak muttered curses at a tent pole that refused to cooperate.

  Maxwell worked in silence. His movements were precise and patient, each knot tied in a single pull, each motion efficient. He seemed untouched by the cold. The wind whipped his cloak, but his face never changed. Maxwell had the look of a man who could outstare winter itself.

  By the time the tents were up, the light was gone. The sky glowed faintly with the promise of stars. Toby managed to coax a small flame from his flint and kindling, but it fought for life, flickering, guttering, before finally catching.

  Maxwell nodded toward it. “Feed it, not drown it,” he said. “Fire’s like a horse—too much handling and it’ll buck.”

  The small flames crackled to life. The smell of burning pine filled the air. Toby felt a sliver of pride at the sight.

  They ate cold rations of dried beef and hard bread. The water in their skins had half-frozen; Reece held his close to the fire, shaking it until it sloshed again. No one spoke much. The silence pressed against their ears. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.

  When they finally crawled into their tents, the night was so cold that Toby could feel it through the earth itself. He wrapped himself in his cloak, curled around his bedroll, and waited for sleep that didn’t come.

  The dawn was a pale smear of light across the horizon. Maxwell was already up, crouched by the dying embers. He looked the same as he had the night before—no chattering teeth, no huddled posture. Just calm, focused stillness. When he stood, snowflakes melted against his cloak, sliding off as if the cold refused to touch him.

  “Up,” he said quietly, and that was enough.

  Toby forced his body to obey. His joints groaned, his breath misted thick. He looked over and saw Kay glaring at his half-frozen boots like they’d personally offended him. Zak swore every few steps as he packed up his tent. Reece moved slowly, still half-asleep, muttering about frozen fingers.

  “Today we ride north,” Maxwell said. “We’ll swing around Grassthorn, then head east and camp by the ford. The cold’s only going to get worse, so stop waiting for it to be kind.”

  They obeyed, because there was nothing else to do.

  The horses snorted and stamped as they mounted. The landscape rolled out before them—endless white hills under a thin blue sky. The sun shone weakly, giving light but no heat.

  Toby tried to keep his mind busy counting breaths, steps, heartbeats. Anything but the cold. The sound of hooves on frozen ground became a rhythm that matched the throb of his temples. After an hour, his fingers stopped hurting. That worried him more than when they had.

  At midday, they stopped by a line of leafless trees.

  Maxwell dismounted and began to gather wood. “Fire,” he said simply.

  Toby and Reece moved at once, breaking branches, stripping bark. Zak stamped around, rubbing his arms. Kay tried to strike a spark, but his hands were trembling.

  “You’re shaking too much,” Toby said. “Here.”

  He took the flint, crouched, and struck until a spark caught. The smoke curled, lazy and blue. Soon a weak flame licked the twigs. They huddled close, trying to steal heat faster than it came.

  Maxwell stood nearby, not joining them. He was scanning the treeline, calm as ever. When the wind blew hard, his cloak rippled, but he didn’t flinch. Toby watched him for a while, unsettled by the calm control in his movements, by the absence of stiffness or tremor. His breath came steady, even though the air bit hard enough to sting lungs.

  Kay followed Toby’s gaze.

  “How is he not freezing?” Toby whispered.

  “Because he’s Master Maxwell,” Zak muttered. “Probably carved from oak.”

  Reece shivered. “Oak gets cold too.”

  Toby glanced toward his horse and agreed. Maxwell turned at that, hearing them despite the wind.

  “You think I don’t feel it?” Maxwell said mildly. “You’d be wrong. The trick isn’t not feeling it. It’s not letting it decide for you.”

  He crouched by the fire then, extending a gloved hand. For a heartbeat, the flames flared higher, as if drawn toward him. Toby blinked—maybe it was the wind—but when he looked again, Maxwell’s hand was steady over the blaze, heat shimmering faintly around it. Then the knight stood, dusted off snow from his knee, and said nothing more.

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  By the second evening, they had crossed a narrow ridge where the snow grew deep and soft. The horses stumbled. Every step felt like dragging through sand. When they finally made camp, no one spoke. Even Zak’s usual humor froze somewhere in his throat. They built their tents crooked, their fire small. The wood was damp, hissing more than it burned. The smell of smoke clung to everything.

  Reece tried to warm his hands, but the fire sputtered low. “It’s useless,” he said. “We should’ve stayed by the ridge.”

  “And freeze faster?” Kay said. “You can go back if you like.”

  “Both of you shut it,” Maxwell said, calm but final. “Arguing burns no energy worth keeping.”

  Toby almost smiled. It was the kind of thing only Maxwell could say without sounding cruel.

  They ate in silence. Zak muttered that his bread was harder than armor. Reece dropped his piece in the snow and swore under his breath.

  Toby didn’t complain. He’d slept through hunger before. He’d slept through worse than hunger.

  That night, as the wind screamed through the trees, Toby woke to find his tent shaking. The stakes rattled, snow whirled in through the flap. He crawled out, half-blind, and saw Maxwell standing alone in the open, cloak snapping in the gale.

  “Get back inside!” Toby shouted over the wind.

  Maxwell turned, voice clear despite the storm. “Someone has to check the horses.”

  “I’ll help!”

  “You’ll freeze.”

  “So will you!”

  For a second, Maxwell’s expression softened—almost a smile. “No. I won’t.” He turned and disappeared into the white.

  Toby hesitated, then pulled his cloak tight and went back inside. When he woke again, the wind had died, and the horses were fine. Maxwell sat near the ashes of the fire, perfectly still, eyes half-lidded, as if he’d never left.

  By the third day, they were shadows of themselves. The cold had become part of their bodies—living in joints, breathing with them. Toby’s lips were cracked, his skin raw. Reece coughed whenever he spoke. Kay’s usual posture was gone, replaced by the hunch of someone saving warmth wherever he could. Even Zak had stopped joking.

  The snow brightened under a pale sun. It should have been beautiful. It wasn’t. What made it worse was seeing the castle and town’s smoke north as they continued eastward toward Mossford Keep.

  When they stopped to rest, Toby looked down at his hands. They were rough, red, and bleeding at the knuckles. He thought of his mother’s hands—soft from bread dough, cracked at the edges from work. He rubbed them together and smiled faintly. He could almost hear her scolding him for not wearing gloves.

  Maxwell called out from ahead. “You’ll want to keep moving. Once you stop feeling the cold, it’s already got you.”

  “Got us days ago,” Zak muttered, too low for Maxwell to hear. Toby wasn’t so sure he hadn’t.

  They followed the line of a frozen brook until noon. The world stretched flat and endless, without walls or hearths, only sky and wind and cold. For the first time, Toby felt a quiet like the one he’d known in the well, but without the edge of death. It was survival still, raw and patient, made bearable by Maxwell at their side.

  That night, the last of their wood was gone. Maxwell gathered a handful of brush and a few dried reeds, knelt, and began to work with flint and steel. The squires watched, numb and silent.

  It should not have caught so quickly—the wood was damp, the air biting—yet the spark took on the first strike. The fire grew steady, sure, feeding on little more than will.

  Reece whispered, “How does he do that?”

  Maxwell didn’t look up. “You’d be surprised what listens if you stop shouting with your fear.”

  The words hung in the air, half mystery, half truth.

  Toby leaned closer to the flames. The heat felt sharper, almost alive. For a moment, he could swear he saw a faint shimmer—not of smoke, but of light. He blinked and it was gone. Maxwell sat quietly, eyes half closed, hands resting near the fire but never touching it.

  None of them spoke again until morning. By the fourth dawn, the world softened. The wind eased. They turned northwest toward home. When the towers of Highmarsh finally broke the horizon, the squires almost didn’t believe it. The castle’s smoke rose like a promise. The sight hit Toby in the chest with something between relief and exhaustion.

  Kay muttered, “Never thought I’d be glad to see that ugly keep.”

  Reece laughed weakly. “I’d kiss the gate if I could feel my lips.”

  Zak just groaned. “First hot meal. Then I’m never leaving my bed again.”

  Maxwell said nothing. He rode ahead, shoulders straight, cloak snapping gently in the breeze. His horse’s breath smoked in perfect rhythm with his own. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, thoughtful.

  “You all did better than I expected.”

  Zak blinked. “We’re alive. That counts?”

  Maxwell smiled faintly. “That’s usually the first test.”

  They crossed the drawbridge, hooves echoing against the frozen planks. The guards at the gate waved them through, faces flushed from indoor warmth.

  Inside the courtyard, stable boys ran forward to take the reins. The squires dismounted like old men, each step an effort. Maxwell swung down lightly, as if the past days had been a stroll.

  As Toby watched him, it became clear the feeling wasn’t envy or awe, but something different, something that called to him. There was something in the man that the cold couldn’t take, something beyond strength or experience. He wanted to find that in himself.

  Later, when the squires were fed, bathed, and nearly asleep on their feet, Maxwell found Toby lingering by the fire in the great hall. He was staring into the flames, lost in thought.

  “Tired?” Maxwell asked.

  Toby nodded. “More than I thought possible.”

  “Good. That means you learned something.”

  Toby smiled faintly. “I’m not sure what.”

  Maxwell poked the fire with a stick. “That cold doesn’t care. It doesn’t hate you or pity you. Same as battle, same as life. All it does is ask one question.”

  “What question?”

  “Will you stop?”

  Toby thought about it, about the long nights, the wind, the fire that shouldn’t have lived but did. He shook his head slowly. “No. I won’t.”

  Maxwell smiled, though it was fleeting. “Then you’ll do fine.”

  Maxwell turned to go, his shadow stretching long across the stone floor. For a moment, Toby could swear the air around Maxwell shimmered—weight, or some pressure, pressed softly on Toby’s skin. The faint ripple of a man so attuned to his body and will that the cold simply passed him by. Then it was gone, and only the warmth of the fire remained.