The swamps of Kahikina had never known cold like this. At least since he had lived here.

Each morning for the past week, Hahona had stepped outside his little hollow beneath swampy waters only to find the grasses stiff with frost. The air bit at his skin, sharp and unfamiliar. Even the ever-present hum of insects had dulled to a low murmur, muffled under the strange chill that had settled across the land.

Hahona was a child of water, born of the shifting currents and thick green stillness of the swamp. But this—this sudden cold—was something he had never felt before. Not like this.

He crouched at the entrance of his home, rubbing his arms for warmth as he stared out across the frost-covered reeds. The sun was just beginning to rise, pale and distant behind a veil of mist. Normally, the morning would be alive with the chirps and croaks of marshlife, the lazy splash of creatures sliding from logs into warm waters. But this morning, as with the ones before it, all was quiet.

Curious and restless, Hahona stood and shook off the cold. He stepped barefoot into the icy grass, flinching slightly at the chill before he got used to it. His toes sank into the soft earth beneath the frost, and the sensation grounded him. He breathed in the sharp air and set out. Surely his parents wouldn't mind a little exploration. And maybe he'd return to tell Anaru stories.

The waterways were slower now, their surfaces rimmed with delicate ice that cracked at his touch. As he moved through the swamp, he whispered old songs under his breath—rhymes passed down by his elders to honor the spirits that lived beneath the water's surface. He hoped they were still there, just sleeping, waiting for the cold to pass.

But something tugged at him, a feeling he couldn’t name. The swamp felt...hollow. Like something had retreated deep into its roots.

He followed the winding stream that cut through the heart of their lands, careful to step lightly over slick rocks and frozen moss. Birds stirred overhead, hidden in the trees, but none called out. The frogs were gone. The fish had vanished. Even the usual croak of the Bayufos near the old hollow log were absent.

That’s when Hahona remembered the stories.

He had heard them whispered by the fires during warm summer nights—tales of a hidden place, a secret glade deep in the swamp where warm springs bubbled up from the belly of the earth. It was said the cold never touched that place, even in the strangest of winters. Some said it was a gift from Palaau, others that it only revealed itself to those who truly needed it.

Hahona wasn’t sure what he believed, but he knew this: if the animals had gone anywhere, it had to be there.

So he followed the stillness, deeper than he had ever dared go alone. He wound between roots twisted like the fingers of sleeping giants, past thickets of frozen cattails and hanging moss stiff with ice. His breath puffed in small clouds as he moved, but determination kept him warm. Somewhere ahead, something waited.

Midday came, though the sun did little to warm the land. Just as he was beginning to wonder if he had imagined the stories, he saw it.

A shimmer.

Barely visible through the trees, a soft steam curled into the air. He quickened his pace, slipping between two gnarled banyan trunks that formed a natural archway. The moment he stepped through, he felt it: warmth.

Before him lay a shallow basin surrounded by low, moss-covered stones. In its center bubbled a spring, its waters clear and alive with motion. Steam rose gently from its surface, casting rainbows in the filtered light. Around it, frogs blinked lazily from lily pads, and dragonflies hovered in the warm mist. Tiny fish darted beneath the surface, golden flashes of life.

He crouched at the edge of the spring and dipped his hands in. The warmth seeped into his skin, soothing the ache in his fingers. He let out a small laugh—quiet, filled with relief. The swamp wasn’t dead. It had just retreated, just as he had hoped.

He sat there for a long while, watching the water swirl, listening to the soft sounds of life returned. He hummed a song of thanks, one his grandmother had taught him, a melody for safe travels and warm returns.

Tomorrow, he would go back. He would tell his sister —show her the path to this hidden sanctuary where the frost could not reach. But for now, Hahona sat still, wrapped in mist and warmth, the only child of the swamp cradled in the heart of winter’s hush.