CHAPTER 86: FREEZING

Damon’s smile still lingered on his lips when, suddenly, his voice lost its mocking tone and became strangely distant.

"No... I feel mine..." he stammered, the sentence trailing off in a clipped thread. The fingers squeezing her waist trembled, rigid.

Ester frowned, the blush still on her cheeks, but her attention shifted to what was below: his hands, once restless and provocative, now blue-tipped. Small crystals glinted on his knuckles, as if cold had materialized icy nails.

She stood still for a second that seemed to stretch the storm. The rustling of the wind, the dragging of the snow—everything reduced to a single sound: the rapid beating of her own heart.

"Your fingers..." she murmured inertly, and behind the word came something she barely acknowledged, a piercing urgency.

Damon tried to force a laugh, but it sounded dry and short, more of a sigh than a mockery. "It’s just... a little chill. I... I’m fine."

His voice trembled. The mist escaping his lips sounded thicker, and the bluish color in his face grew, spreading across his skin like cold ink.

Ester wasted no time with sarcasm. Her professional side, the blade of demand that guided her, returned in an instant: he could die if this wasn’t treated. Every second in that white void counted.

"Shut up and stop moving like that," she ordered matter-of-factly. "If you keep wasting heat like that, you’ll freeze solid."

Damon’s eyes widened. There was fear there, generic and strange in the eyes that had been mocking him a moment ago. He tried to muster some semblance of irony, but failed.

Ester looked around. The landscape was a white desolation: no decent shrubs, trees further on snapped by the weight of the ice. They didn’t have much. But there were possibilities. A broken, covered trunk lay there, a hollow among the rocks, a half-buried branch.

"I’m going to find some minimal shelter," she announced. "Stay here. Don’t move," she added, indifferent to the voice pleading for comfort.

She climbed out of the snow and gestured briefly for him to remain still. Looking Damon straight in the eye, she found a weary, resigned look; for the first time, there was no pincushion, no provocation—just a small, vulnerable boy.

Ester quickly ripped the cloak from his back and wrapped it around his waist, letting the weight fall on her again without a word. She could do this; she had already learned that actions spoke louder than prayers. Damon groaned softly as the cloak covered part of his bluish skin, feeling the slight warmth of that layer.

She tore pieces of wood from the nearby trunk, dragged branches, gathered anything that would burn. Her already frozen fingers moved quickly, efficiently, mechanically guided by relentless training. Her legs burned, breathing was labored, but the idea was clear: to make fire, to transform the damp into flame, to prevent his fingers from turning into statues.

The first attempt yielded only smoke—a lot of smoke. Ester held her breath, inhaling the acrid smell. The wind wanted to extinguish everything. She raised a hand, molded the icy mana into a protective shield for a second, sheltering the small pile of twigs from the direct blow of the wind, and again struck sparks with a makeshift flint.

When the fire finally gave a signal, a flame frequently joined the breath as if daring; first a flicker, then a knot of heat that began to warm the air around it. Ester bent over the fire as if it were an altar and, with fingers aching from the cold, pulled his cloak closer, pressing it against his hands.

Damon closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensation. When the skin on his fingertips lightly touched the rising thread of heat, his body reacted with a deep sigh, the body that had previously spat sarcasm now quieted like a child.

"You are..." he murmured, but the word died in his throat. There was no room for mockery there.

Ester didn’t respond. She sat across from him and took each of his frozen hands in hers—not with the gentleness of someone asking for favors, but with the urgency of someone saving lives. Her hand, still warm, transmitted heat. She used her mana as a complement: she molded a thin layer of icy Qi, not to cool, but to contain the thermal shock and prevent the internal ice from spreading, structuring the heat so it could penetrate safely.

"Take a deep breath," she instructed, as in every training session she’d ever given. "In three counts. Inhale, hold. Now exhale. Look at me."

He did as she said. His slow, controlled breathing not only helped him maintain lucidity but also prevented the vasoconstriction from becoming fatal. Ester shifted the cloak, pressing it, pushing the heat into her palms, rubbing quickly, like lighting a fire on wet wood.

Damon’s fingers slowly blushed, patches of blue returning to their normal tone. It wasn’t a miracle cure—there was pain, deep marks, and the sensation of throbbing in his neck and joints—but it was a start. His body responded to this small, stubborn miracle.

He looked at her, his eyes wet. That ironic expression he always wore to protect himself had given way to something he couldn’t name: raw gratitude, mixed with shame at having been weak.

"Thank you," it came out softly, almost a whisper.

Ester lifted a corner of her mouth—not a smile, not yet. Just a short gesture, hard as ice.

"Stay where you are," she said matter-of-factly. "I pointed a direction: there’s a rocky depression to the northeast. If we can make it, there’s more shelter. But slowly. No fussing."

Damon raised an eyebrow, his posture testing his own body.

"What if I start moving again?" he asked, clearly trying to regain his composure. "Are you going to bite me?"

Ester gave him a look that could freeze horns. "I’ll kill you. Then I’ll warm you up."

He laughed, a thin, weak sound, and pressed his hands against the snow again, feeling the pain court his laughter. He stood there, motionless as she’d ordered, while she moved with her usual coolness—only now there was tenderness in her working hands. The same fingers that had gripped him tightly earlier and provoked him just moments before now saved him unceremoniously.

The fire crackled, the storm howled, and the world seemed to shrink to those two figures: a woman who couldn’t admit fragility, and a man who, despite his insolence, needed her. Around them, the blizzard continued to erase footprints, but within that small circle of warmth, a silent resolve was etched in the icy air: they wouldn’t give each other up so easily.