The cold came like a whisper at first. A wind that bit gently at the skin instead of the usual kiss of sea breeze. The sun still shone, but it was no longer the loving embrace of warmth she’d grown up with on Kahikina. Instead, it peered through a silver-gray veil of clouds, its strength dampened, as if the skies themselves were in mourning or deep contemplation.

Nayyara stood near the edge of the mangrove roots, her arms wrapped loosely around her waist as she watched the tide sluggishly roll in. Even the ocean seemed to be moving slower these days, like it too felt the sudden drop in temperature and didn’t know what to make of it.

“It’s cold,” one of the younger girls whispered behind her, wide-eyed and bundled up in a makeshift cloak made from stitched banana leaves and old linen.

“It’s not that cold,” Nayyara said with a chuckle, turning around to face the small group of sisters huddled together behind her. “This is what we used to call ‘cool weather’ when I was your age.”

“But you didn’t grow up during this cold,” piped up another. She was the smallest of the group, barely up to Nayyara’s hip. Her hair was thick with coils, little flowers braided in like they were holding onto summer despite the season’s betrayal. “They say the desert is shivering. Even Oba.”

“That part is true,” Nayyara said, kneeling so she could be eye-level with the girls. “I got a message not long ago. The sand was frosting over in patches. That doesn’t happen, not even in the deep nights.”

The girls gasped collectively, covering their mouths with their tiny fingers.

“Did you see snow?” one asked, eyes bright with wonder.

“I did,” Nayyara said with a smile, her eyes drifting toward the horizon, as if remembering it made it appear again. “When I visited Zena, up in the high mountains. It falls like ash, light and soft, but cold. It gathers on the trees and makes them look like bones wrapped in lace. The whole world turns white and still. It’s beautiful, but fierce. You can’t wander far in it without layers. The cold will steal your breath if you’re not careful.”

“Did it steal yours?”

“No,” she said, ruffling the speaker’s curls gently. “But it tried. I had to borrow fur from a kind merchant in the valley and warm stones from a smith’s forge just to make it to the next ridge.”

“That sounds dangerous,” the smallest girl whispered.

“It was,” Nayyara said, nodding solemnly. “But sometimes danger teaches us things comfort cannot. Like how far we’ll go for something we want. Or how deeply we care about those we travel with.”

She sat down fully on the ground then, motioning for the girls to join her. They didn’t hesitate, crawling into a loose circle, wrapping their cloaks around their knees and leaning in for warmth and story.

“Have any of you ever seen the frost flowers?” she asked.

The girls shook their heads vigorously.

“They only bloom in the north,” Nayyara began. “And only when the cold is at its sharpest. Thin, white petals that curl like waves, growing right out of the bark of old trees. They melt when you touch them. Like they’re shy or sacred, or both.”

“Did you touch one?” one girl whispered, captivated.

“No,” Nayyara said. “I wanted to, but something in me said not to. Not everything beautiful is meant to be held. Some things are meant to be remembered.”

The wind rustled through the trees, and Nayyara felt the chill settle more deeply into her bones. She resisted the urge to shiver, not because she didn’t feel it, but because she knew the young ones were watching her with eyes full of myth and wonder. A Blade couldn’t shiver, not yet.

“Do you think it’ll snow here?” another asked.

“No,” Nayyara said softly. “But the world is changing. The cold reaching this far is new. It means the balance is shifting. Maybe one day, the frost will find its way to our shores.”

“What will we do then?”

“We’ll adapt,” she said with quiet confidence. “We’re born of the tree, but we’re shaped by the world. Just like it shaped me when I left home to see more than the warmth of Kahikina.”

One of the girls leaned against her shoulder, and the others followed suit until Nayyara found herself surrounded by warmth, despite the chill. She smiled, letting the closeness of them fight the cold back.

“You’ll all see snow one day,” she promised, eyes rising to the canopy overhead. “But until then, I’ll tell you every story I can remember. I’ll make it real for you in words.”

“Can we have a snow story now?” the youngest asked, yawning.

“Of course,” Nayyara said, settling in more comfortably. “Let me tell you about the time my mother and I were caught in a white-out, and we had to find our way down the mountain using only the stars…”

As she spoke, the wind carried her voice through the trees, mingling with the rustle of the branches. The island remained cold, but laughter, stories, and curiosity kindled a warmth that no winter could steal.