Winter announced itself with frost.
Not all at once, not completely—just as a thin white layer on the grass that vanished by midday. But it had been there, and the settlement reacted to it like a signal. The work shifted: fewer fields, more roofs, more supplies, more sealing and insulation. Anything still unfinished had to be closed before the real cold arrived.
Samuel noticed that his tarp was no longer enough at night.
He woke during the third week of early winter with stiff fingers and lay still for a moment, breathing into his hands until the tingling eased. He said nothing about it. But Gustov noticed at breakfast, in the way Samuel held his bowl—with both hands, too tightly, too close to his face.
Gustov said nothing. After breakfast, he stood up, walked over to Torck, and spoke to him briefly. Torck listened, nodded once, then headed toward the smaller shelter on the eastern edge of the settlement.
That evening, Gustov showed Samuel a place inside.
A corner. Not large, but raised off the ground with wooden planks so the cold couldn't creep up directly from below. A blanket was already waiting there.
"Torck built this?" "Yeah."
Samuel glanced over at Torck, who was fastening something to a wall at the far end of the shelter and carefully avoided looking in his direction.
I'm going to have to thank him someday without making it awkward.
He set his cloak on the blanket and left it at that.
The supplies were counted carefully during those weeks. Jorcx and Morra spent an entire day inspecting the harvest, sorting it, storing it—everything that would keep went into crates, everything that wouldn't had to be consumed within the next few weeks. Samuel helped carry and stack things. Greth accompanied the work with a running commentary that nobody attempted to interrupt.
Dravan appeared as he always did. He helped very little and observed a great deal, which seemed to be his preferred method of working. His mother—Samuel had since learned that her name was Kessa—occasionally appeared to check on him. Sometimes she glanced briefly at Samuel as well, always with the same neutral expression, always without saying a word.
By now, he was sure it wasn't hostility.
It was waiting.
One morning, Urag called for him.
Not loudly, not through Gustov—directly. He stood in the center of the settlement, looked at Samuel, and made a short gesture that clearly meant come here.
Samuel walked over.
Urag pointed at a stack of wooden planks beside Torck's work area.
"Those need to go to the storage building over there."
He pointed toward the far side of the settlement.
"By myself?" "Barak will help."
Then Urag was already moving on.
Samuel looked at the pile. Then at Barak, who was already standing beside him and lifting one of the planks as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
They carried the wood.
It wasn't an important task. But it was the first time Urag had spoken to him directly—not through Gustov, not through a glance, but directly. As though Samuel were simply someone in the settlement who could be given a job.
I think he's been watching me this whole time. Just not in a way anyone would notice.
Barak carried in silence.
So did Samuel.
It took them three trips.
That week, Samuel learned two more names.
Harra—a middle-aged Orc woman responsible for the settlement's water supply. Quiet. Efficient. She carried a permanently focused expression, as if she were constantly calculating something.
And Wunn—an old Orc with a bent back who might once have been very tall. He rose before anyone else and went to sleep after everyone else. Samuel still hadn't figured out exactly what his role was. He seemed to be involved in everything just a little—holding something here, observing something there, speaking to someone briefly before they returned to work as if a problem had suddenly become clear.
I think Wunn is the reason things don't fall apart, even if nobody quite knows how.
That evening, Dravan came with a question.
He sat down beside Samuel at the fire, ate his meal in silence, and waited until Vorzak had finished telling a story. Then he looked at Samuel.
"Where are you actually from?"
Samuel thought for a moment.
"Far away." "How far?" "Very far. Another country."
Dravan considered that.
"Farther than Eaterweite?" "Much farther."
Dravan nodded as if he had already suspected as much.
"Do they have Orcs there too?"
Samuel looked at him.
"No." "Then what do they have?" "Humans. Cars. Schools."
Dravan frowned.
"What are cars?" That's a good question. "Wagons. But without horses. They move by themselves."
Dravan stared at him for a moment as if trying to determine whether Samuel was making fun of him.
"I don't believe you." "I know."
Dravan looked back into the fire. Then, after a while:
"Do you miss it?"
Samuel didn't answer immediately.
"Sometimes."
Dravan nodded again. Then he leaned back and looked up at the sky.
"I've never been anywhere except here and where we lived before." "That's not a bad thing." "I know."
He didn't sound sad.
Just matter-of-fact.
"But I'd like to see those horse-less wagons someday."
Samuel laughed quietly.
Dravan laughed too, briefly, before turning serious again.
The fire burned steadily. The settlement was quiet. Somewhere inside one of the shelters, muted voices drifted through the night. A child whined. Then silence returned.
Samuel sat there and thought about how different this evening was from that first night on the hard ground.
Not dramatically different.
Just different.
The first real snowfall came during the night.
Samuel didn't wake because of it—he slept more deeply than he had in weeks. The new shelter kept the cold out in a way he only truly appreciated after waking. What stirred him was the silence.
A different silence than usual.
Muffled.
As though the world had draped itself in a layer of wool overnight.
He stepped outside.
The plain was white.
Not deep—barely a hand's breadth—but even and unbroken. Above it stretched a gray, tranquil sky, like a blank page. The settlement looked smaller beneath it. The shelters, the wagons, the storage buildings—all seemed drawn a little closer together beneath the weight of the snow.
Wunn was already outside.
He simply stood there with his hands behind his back, looking out over the snow with the expression of someone greeting an old acquaintance.
Samuel stepped beside him.
Wunn glanced over.
"Earlier than last year."
Samuel had no idea whether that was good or bad. Wunn's tone gave nothing away.
"Is that a problem?"
Wunn thought for a moment.
"Depends on what comes next."
Then he walked toward the fire.
Samuel remained where he was for another moment, gazing across the white plain. The mountains on the horizon had disappeared into the gray. The wind was calm.
Antony would have said something stupid about snowballs by now.
He let the thought linger for a moment before following Wunn.
Work during winter was different from work during autumn.
The fields lay dormant.
There were other things to do instead—chopping wood, clearing snow from roofs before it became too heavy, caring for the animals, repairing tools worn down by months of use. Samuel quickly learned that winter didn't mean less work.
It meant different work.
Jorcx showed him how to store seed reserves for the next year properly—dry, cool but not frozen, in containers specifically built for that purpose. It was work that required patience and an understanding of which seeds needed which conditions. Samuel listened and memorized what he could.
Drox spent much of that time helping with supplies. He was still what Samuel would describe as skeptical—not hostile, but evaluating. Every so often, his gaze would land briefly on Samuel before moving on without revealing anything.
One afternoon, they reached for the same container at the same time.
Both paused.
Drox let go.
"You."
Samuel took the container and placed it where it belonged. Drox watched to see whether he would do it correctly.
Samuel did.
Drox said nothing.
But he returned to his own work without that usual evaluating look.
I think that was something like passing a test.
Kessa spoke to him directly for the first time on an evening when Dravan had a fever and didn't come to the fire.
She approached him briefly and directly, speaking with the practical tone of someone who rarely wasted words.
"He has a fever. He'll be fine tomorrow."
Samuel looked at her.
"Thank you for telling me."
Kessa studied him for a moment.
"He talks about you a lot."
She said it without judgment—neither as a compliment nor a criticism.
Simply as information.
Then she left.
Samuel sat by the fire and thought about that.
Dravan talked about him.
That meant Kessa knew his name. It meant she knew who he was. It meant he occupied a place in Dravan's daily life large enough to be mentioned.
That's strange. And somehow not strange at all.
The following evening, Dravan returned to the fire. He looked paler than usual but carried the same unshakable curiosity about everything.
He sat beside Samuel, pulled his blanket tighter around himself, and said without introduction:
"I had a fever." "I know. Your mother told me."
Dravan glanced at him.
"She talked to you?" "Briefly."
Dravan seemed to process that. Then he nodded, as if some internal question had been answered.
"She doesn't talk much to strangers." "I know." "But you're not really a stranger anymore."
He said it casually, between two sips from his bowl, without looking up.
As if it were an obvious fact worth mentioning only in passing.
Samuel didn't answer immediately.
He looked into the fire and let the words remain there for a while.
Not really a stranger anymore.
Not home.
Not one of them.
But no longer what he had been on that first night either—someone suspended somewhere between air and person.
Something in between.
The fire crackled.
Harra stopped by briefly, checked the water supply beside the fire pit, nodded to herself, and moved on. Wunn sat in his usual place, watching the flames with his calm, difficult-to-read expression.
The settlement breathed beneath the snow.
Samuel pulled his cloak tighter and sat quietly.
Not really a stranger anymore.
He decided he could accept that.