“And you were just standing there,” he said slowly, “begging a stubborn fire in your dream to give you a bit of warmth.”

“I wasn’t begging,” James said, more sharply than he intended. He shifted in his chair. “I just… wanted to know why it was like that. It seemed… sentient, somehow. Persisting in solitude, while endless devotees crowded around for a morsel of heat, a crumb of an answer.”

“Did you talk to anyone?” Dave asked.

“No.” James’s gaze drifted back to the hearth. “I didn’t dare to. To interact with the figures nor with that contained, cognizant sun.”

He rubbed at his forearms, suddenly aware of the goosebumps lifting on his skin despite the room’s heat.

“I woke up just as the drums grew louder,” he finished softly. “Rising in tempo, threatening to consume anything and everything all around me. It sounded like heavy rain, or a loud waterfall, or wind- yes wind, wind as if it was blowing past and all around me, threatening to whip me away. And…” He hesitated, then added, “When I woke, the sound had blended with the snowstorm outside- but I could still see the light. You know when you look at something bright and then close your eyes, and the shape stays? It was like that. Only it didn’t fade. Not for a long time.”

The fire cackled rhythmically between the two men. Outside, the wind battered at the lodge, less like weather and more like a thing offended by the existence of four wooden walls and a stubborn fire within.

Dave shifted, the old chair groaning under his weight. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands wrapped around his mug.

“You’re a special guy, James,” he said finally, and there was no sarcasm in it now. “Most Dwarini men dream of leaving this godforsaken place, or at the very least—liberation from this cold. They dream of Vrishivanti beaches, hell, Vrishivanti girls, anything that isn’t white and trying to kill them all throughout their measly existence.”