Chapter 34: Cold Comfort

The wind howls mercilessly through the mountain passes, cutting through Giroud’s clothes like icy daggers. Their horse trudges forward, head lowered against the biting cold. Behind him, Aya’s teeth chatter despite the blanket wrapped tight around her shoulders.

Giroud wishes he’d made Aya stay in Tidehaven. At least she wouldn’t have to shiver through this snowstorm.

After several hours of riding through the night, he laments the fact they have no winter gear, not having anticipated a trip high into the mountains when they left Whitespire days ago. Their loose travel garments are not up to the task of their current climate. The temperature drops dramatically as they climb higher into the foothills, and now snowflakes swirl in the darkness around them, the horse’s hooves crunching on frost and hard snow. The moon offers little light through the thick clouds overhead.

Aya’s shivering becomes more violent. Giroud pulls their mount to a stop, scanning the rocky terrain.

“We need to find shelter,” he says, raising his voice above the wind. “No point pushing on in these conditions.”

They guide the horse along the base of a steep cliff face, Giroud’s eyes searching for any suitable refuge. After several minutes, he spots a promising formation - two large rock outcroppings create a natural alcove, the walls angling to block the worst of the wind.

“There,” he points. “That should work for the night.”

They lead the horse into the protected space. While Aya handles the mount, Giroud gathers what sparse kindling he can find, mostly dried brush caught between rocks. His fingers are nearly numb as he arranges the materials.

The space is cramped but defensible. High walls on three sides create a natural windbreak, though the narrow entrance will mean sleeping close together. Giroud focuses on getting the fire started as Aya returns with their packs, dropping them near the back wall.

The flames catch slowly, but soon a small fire burns, pushing back the darkness and offering a tiny measure of warmth. Giroud holds his hands near the flames, trying to restore feeling to his freezing fingers.

Aya is in her rucksack with her blanket over the top for added insulation, but Giroud can still hear her teeth chattering. The thin material of their travel bedding wasn’t designed for mountain nights. He’d laid their bedrolls on a bed of gathered dried brush to insulate them from the cold stone floor, but it wasn’t enough.

Feeling returns to Giroud’s fingers in painful pinpricks as he considers their options. His own rucksack, slightly larger than Aya’s, could be opened fully and used as a ground layer. He slides it parallel to Aya’s, creating a makeshift mattress that would at least keep them off the frozen ground.

“We need to share warmth,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “Put your blanket over both bedrolls - it’ll trap more heat that way.”

Aya nods through chattering teeth, helping him arrange their meager bedding. The practicality of survival overshadows any awkwardness as they work to create a more effective shelter against the bitter cold.

He positions himself beside her, maintaining what little distance he can while still providing warmth. The combined covers create a small pocket of warmth, but her shivering continues unabated.

“Aya,” he whispers across the small gap between them. “Have you read any spells for generating heat?”

“N-no.” Her voice quavers. “The t-tome only has d-dark magic.”

Minutes crawl by like hours. The fire offers minimal warmth against the brutal mountain cold. Aya’s shivering grows worse, each tremor twisting something in Giroud’s chest.

A rustle of movement catches his attention. Aya rolls toward him, squirming between their rucksacks until she presses against his body. Her smaller frame fits perfectly against his chest, her head tucking under his chin. The scent of her hair fills his nose - vanilla, pine needles and mountain air. Each exhale ghosts across his neck, sending electricity down his spine.

His stomach lurches, heart thundering against his ribs where her chest meets his. The intimacy of their position floods his mind with thoughts he knows he must suppress. He forces himself to focus on her shivering, on her need for warmth and nothing more.

Giroud wraps his arm around her slender body, drawing her closer. Her trembling gradually lessens as their shared body heat builds in the confined space. He keeps his breathing steady, willing his racing thoughts to calm.

Sleep claims Aya swiftly once warmth returns to her limbs. Her breathing deepens and slows, body relaxing completely against his. The tension drains from her muscles as she drifts into peaceful slumber, trusting and vulnerable in his embrace.

Giroud’s heart refuses to slow its frantic pace. Her slight frame fits perfectly against him, the thin fabric of their traveling clothes doing nothing to mask the softness of her body. Each gentle rise and fall of her chest sends waves of guilt and desire crashing through him. Her hair tickles his chin, that intoxicating scent of vanilla making his head spin.

He should move away. Create distance. But the bitter mountain cold leaves him no choice but to maintain their shared warmth. At least, that’s what he tells himself as he unconsciously draws her closer, savoring the feeling of having her safe in his arms.