Most folks thought the cold was a curse—something to huddle against, mutter about, and pray away with hot tea and thicker cloaks. But not Ondine. She said it gave the air a good bite. Made a person feel alive.

She wasn’t new to cold snaps. She’d weathered the frost blooms in Jauhar, where even the towering forest trees shivered and the wind shrieked through the leaves like a dying flute. Compared to that, the cold sweeping Tendaji now was nothing but a kitten’s paw. Still, it was enough to send the desert folk of Oba scrambling for wool cloaks and even the sea-hardened traders bundling up like children. Ondine? She just pulled her collar up higher and kept an eye out for a tavern with a fire hot enough to roast her aches away and a drink strong enough to put the sting in her blood.

That’s how she ended up at The Cracked Antler, a squat stone building halfway between the icy spines of Zena and the southern road leading to Oba. The wind had nearly shoved her through the front door. Inside, warmth hit her like a hammer to the chest. A hearth roared in the corner, flames throwing wild shadows against smoke-dark walls, and the air was thick with the scent of wet wool, roasted meat, and spilled ale. It was perfect.

Ondine shook off the snow and stomped the slush from her boots, making her way to the fire like a dog after a dropped haunch of meat. The barkeep, a heavyset woman with arms like she could bench press an ox, slid a mug of dark ale her way without asking a word. There was no need. Ondine stood out—half-wild, half-hybrid, and fully unbothered by the cold, dressed like she’d just finished a morning brawl with the wind itself.

The ale was strong, sharp enough to make her gums tingle, and the heat seeped deep into the muscles she didn’t even know ached. She was halfway through her second mug when trouble walked in.

A big man. Frost crusted in his beard. Cloak stiff with ice. He looked like someone who’d fought a mountain and only just survived. He took a stool two seats down from Ondine, said nothing, barely acknowledged the barkeep’s offering. Just sat there, brooding and quiet.

Ondine didn’t plan on starting anything. Really. She was perfectly content to melt by the fire and let the ale do its work. But something about the way he sat there, chewing on the rim of his mug like the world owed him something, grated on her.

“You look like someone who lost a fight and still thinks he won,” she said, loud enough to carry.

The man turned slowly, one eyebrow arching high. “You always talk like that to strangers?”

“Only the interesting ones,” she replied with a crooked grin, raising her mug in a mock toast.

That smirk—just a flicker—was enough to crack the ice between them. Before long, they were swapping travel tales. He spoke of the deep north, where the snow swallowed whole caravans and wolves grew as big as bears. Ondine countered with stories from Jauhar, where the Alkidikes shimmered with ancient magic and the trees whispered secrets older than cities.

It didn’t take long for the ale to add fire to their voices. The two were soon arguing about which beast would win in a fight: a desert lizard or a mountain tiger. And like most good tavern debates, it spiraled.

Someone slammed a coin down on the table and shouted, “Settle it the old way!”

And just like that, the room erupted. Tables were pushed back, tankards raised in cheer, and a makeshift ring formed in the center of the floor. The cold was forgotten. All eyes were on the firelit space where Ondine and the stranger circled each other like seasoned gladiators.

He swung like a boulder. She ducked and wove like smoke. Her fists landed fast, sharp—elbows and knees following close behind. She took a bruised rib and a split lip for her trouble, but she gave as good as she got. When it was done, the man sported a black eye and a breathless grin. They clasped arms, stumbled back to the fire, and were handed fresh mugs by the delighted crowd.

That was the thing about the cold. It brought people together. In a world sharp and silent, warmth became a shared thing—found in laughter, in bruises, in stories swapped over bitter ale. Ondine didn’t need a hearth of her own. Give her a rowdy tavern, a few bruises, and the smell of fire smoke in her hair. That was home enough.

As the blizzards howled over Zena’s peaks and the chill crept even into the sands of Oba, Ondine stayed right where she was—by the fire, knuckles sore, belly full, surrounded by strangers turned companions.

Let the cold come. She had enough fire in her fists to last the whole season.