Echoes of a Shadowless Winter

*“Don't look back. Don't cast a shadow."* Avril muttered the mantra under her breath, boots crunching through knee-deep snow. The wind howled like a hungry wolf, scattering sleet across the ridgeline. Somewhere behind her, soldiers marched—slow, methodical, iron on ice. She ducked beneath a low-hanging spruce, pulled her cloak tighter, and exhaled into her cupped hands. The heat vanished instantly. She hadn't eaten in two days. Then she saw it—dark droplets dotting the snow, half-melted, still steaming. Blood. “Not animal," she whispered. “Too red. Too fresh." A trail led into the trees, smeared across bark and fallen branches. She hesitated. “No," she told herself. “Keep moving." A branch cracked deeper inside the forest. Avril flinched. Her fingers slipped to the bone knife strapped beneath her herbs pouch. Another groan—human. Her legs moved before her mind gave permission. Behind a snow-drenched log, he lay face-down, his coat shredded by silver shrapnel embedded in his side. His back rose and fell in staccato bursts, breath shallow, trembling. Avril knelt beside him. “Hey—can you hear me?" The boy stirred, eyelids fluttering. Pale gold eyes. Sweat soaked his hair. Fever. “I… I think my name is Northen," he rasped. “Don't speak." She yanked her satchel open, fingers flying over vials, thread, moss. “You've been poisoned. That's silver in you." “I... can't feel my hands." “That's because you're halfway to freezing." She slashed open his tunic. “Hold still." “Don't leave me." Her hands paused. His voice was weak, almost childlike. “I'm not leaving," she said softly. “But you might not remember this." She bit her lip, packed ice-cold moss into the wound to slow the toxin. Blood oozed. She threaded a curved needle, began stitching. “What's... your name?" he asked, voice fading. “Avril." “Avril," he echoed, then winced. “Pretty. Sounds warm." “It's not." She tugged the last stitch tight. “Now shut up." A gust of wind slammed through the trees. Avril looked up. No time to build a stretcher. The blizzard was thickening. She looped her arms under his and hauled him upright with a grunt. “You're heavier than you look." “I'm... tall," he mumbled. “Not helping." They staggered through the trees, branches slapping against her face. An old watch hut—half-buried in snow—emerged in the whiteout like a phantom. She kicked the door open, dragged him inside, and slammed it shut with her back. The silence after wind was deafening. Avril lowered him beside the cold hearth, knelt to check his pulse again. Still there, but faint. She lit a fire with dry moss and pinecones, the flames weak but real. Orange light flickered across his bloodied chest. “Water," he croaked. She melted snow in a battered tin cup, lifted his head to drink. “You're not going to die," she murmured. “I don't remember anything. Except... fire. Screaming." She hesitated. “Your name's Northen. That's enough for now." “Are you... from the Empire?" Avril laughed bitterly. “Do I look like I'm from the Empire?" He blinked at her—wide-eyed, trusting. A mistake, but a flattering one. “No shadow," he whispered suddenly. “Your fire—no shadow." Avril froze. “You're... like the stories." She rose abruptly. “Sleep." “But—" “I said sleep." Her voice snapped like frostbitten wood. She turned away before he could see her hand trembling. --- Hours later, the wind shrieked outside like dying wolves. Avril sat cross-legged beside the hearth, boiling a tincture. Northen dozed, brow furrowed, lips murmuring half-formed words. She reached for her pipe flute—worn, cracked, but still able to hum. A lullaby escaped her throat, low and mournful. His face relaxed. She studied him in the firelight. Silver scars ran down his arms—burns from something unnatural. His pulse fluttered under her fingers like a moth. “Whoever you were," she whispered, “you're not that now." Behind her, the fire cracked again, sending sparks into the air. She didn't see her shadow. She never did. But for once, she wasn't cold.