It starts, as many things do metaphorically and very few things do literally, with an avalanche. This is both.

Lin Long Dau is born with the last star on the coldest night of the coldest winter in Undisian living memory.

The fire flickers, on the verge of death, as a chill wind blows through walls of aged stone. Inside, the people shiver, and Lin begins to cry with weak, peculiar sounds, his skin cast with unnatural pallor, tinged with blue.

The baby's discomfort alarms the attendants, and the family exchanges nervous looks. Only the mother speaks. "Give him to me," she says to the father, in whose arms Lin continues to weep strangely. Lars, relieved, places the baby in her arms, and soon the unnerving cries are quietened by a warm embrace and smile. Everyone noticeably relaxes.

"That's it," Lin's mother says. Her eyes are bright in the flickering dark, as bright as her son's eyes are not. "He's just cold. Only cold."

Once, Gaius visits.

Wingul can tell it's him, because he's the only one who calls him Lin still, and his voice is warm like none other's when he speaks to the unmoving, unfeeling Wingul.

Weighted boots tread around him, quietly thundering. After a few moments come the sounds of Gaius sinking heavily to his side. A large, warm hand closes around his wrist, taking his pulse, and Wingul takes unthinking comfort in it. Can Gaius feel his heartbeat jump in response? He'd like to think so.

A heavy sigh. Everything about Gaius seems heavy now. Wingul imagines that if he could open his eyes, he'd see a face darkened with maturity, eyes lined with care. He's a little glad he can't see that. He's not strong enough, not yet, not yet.

"I don't want to know why you did this." The words come, slow and measured. They hurt. "But I do."

Gaius doesn't say anything after that. The moment suspends, a dark colloidal substance that gathers at the back of Wingul's throat: both men breathe grief for the loss of each other.

He can tell Gaius leaves when his warm imprint dissipates without warning. Wingul curls into his own skin, and fears he may have imagined the whole thing. Wingul realizes that this is what it is to live in forever, utter cold.

"Because," the enemy says, and his words are a white roar in Lin's ears, "I am not one to be blinded by victory and cause the death of excellent soldiers through underhanded tactics. They are precious warriors who will one day support my country and help me forge a path for the good of the people."

Who are you? Lin's eyes widen just enough to see the full picture of this man and his words, large as life and twice as confident.

It's everything Lin has looked for, and nothing he believes in. Call off the battle? Give up the advantage he'd worked so hard to attain? Forfeit the vengeance owed to him on his mother's behalf? Who are you to ask such things of me?

Nils is unhappy. "I can tell you're thinking about it," he says with a touch of asperity. "Don't trust him, Lin."

An avalanche, an avalanche. Wingul breathes ice and watches Gaius walk back to his camp, a lone slash of warm red upon the white and blue of the mountain.

Nils doesn't realize it's not a question of trust. He doesn't know what it is to be cold, cold, all the time. One would think that Gaius, with his gleam and strength, doesn't know either, but-

"They are precious," says the man, cloaked in heat and words of power, so that even the avalanche seems unable to touch him. And Lin knows, the way he knows himself to wear black to absorb heat, that Gaius does know after all, somehow, that he understands what is to be cold, to be weak, for how else could people of such qualities be precious to such a king.

Lin surrenders to Gaius the next day.

When Presa brings Agria to the castle, Wingul takes one look at the expression on the king's face and asks the women to step outside, with that balanced, gritty tone he knows Presa will recognize. It's his Royal Damage Control voice.

"Gaius?" he asks patiently.

The king is still staring at the place Agria had stood. "I never knew freckles could be so frightening," he mumbles, and Wingul feels a laugh bubbling from his lungs.

With rare delicateness, he ventures, "Perhaps with medical attention-"

"A doctor!" Gaius huffs. "That girl doesn't need a doctor, she needs an exorcist."

"I take this to mean you will deny her asylum."

"Of course not," Gaius makes an impatient gesture. "It's a simple matter to take her to the hospital."

"I was thinking of a situation that would make far more use of her skills."

Gaius frowns with trepidation. "I don't like where this is going."

"I want her to join the Chimeriad," Wingul says, and pauses to enjoy the effect of his words.

The king looks terrified. "You're punishing me for something, aren't you?"

"I would never," his prime minister denies solemnly.

"You are. It's because of the porange wine embargo, isn't it? For the last time, I'm sorry! I didn't have a choice, that monopoly was driving out Auj Oule's winery business!"

"That never bothered you before!" Wingul snaps, then with difficulty controls himself. "In any case, a hospital won't help her." He thinks of Agria's eyes, wide and manic and devoid of all warmth. It had been stripped from her long ago. "She needs to be important to someone for something only she can do."

"Well," the king says after a moment, "far be it from me to deny you your vindication."

"As if you could," Wingul says darkly.

"It was just porange wine, Lin."

"Porange wine," Wingul says fervently, "is the best."

Gaius chuckles over his whiskey. "You're drunk, Wingul. Go home."

"I am home," he says, and Gaius has nothing to say to that.

Recruiting Jiao is Wingul's decision, and it's not for the reason most people think. The king's advisers take one look at the hulking beastmaster and say yes, that is a man worthy to be in direct service to the king.

Wingul doesn't bother to tell anyone that he really only hired Jiao for his unparalleled cooking skills. After tasting Jiao's spicy pumpkin soup with sweet cheese buns, Gaius and the rest of the Chimeriad agree wordlessly to do the same.

But there's more to it than that, something he doesn't tell Gaius but he seems to know anyway because he seems several degrees warmer with the last addition to the team. And Wingul knows that this will be the last because Gaius can only handle so many people needing him, needing his flame before he burns out. Judging by how Jiao purposefully surrounds himself with stoves and ovens and hot, delicious food, he certainly needs more than what Gaius alone can provide.

It's a good idea. So Wingul orders the Chimeriad and Gaius to attend breakfast every morning in Jiao's personal kitchen, and from then on, it becomes a tradition. Jiao serves fluffy eggs and pancakes melted into pools of rich butter and golden streams of maple syrup, Agria laughs in her own way at the comics in the newspaper laid out for her, Presa flirts with an impassive Wingul just to prove a point, and Gaius watches them all with tired, content eyes. It's early morning, the air is crisp and cool from the window, they are alone together, and the ovens turn the room so soft and welcoming that even Gaius seems to relax, his intensity curling into itself, taking a rest from being needed.

It's a precious balm for all of them. It feeds what Gaius can't no matter how much he tries, the need to be brought close to each other, close enough to share a beautifully made breakfast in bright and dark mornings. Close enough to say that we are part of something great and good, and it is our happy obligation to do so.

Gaius gives them a home, and Wingul runs it. Presa protects it, and Jiao feeds it. Agria, with snow for hair and ice for eyes, keeps it together, as a child does, a manifestation of them all. They are a team now, and what they cannot do on their own, they can do together: keep warm, keep happy.

This is what Wingul lets Jiao in for. This is what Jiao stays for.

Strangely enough, the song is Agria's idea.

"You should write a song for it," she tells Wingul as they sit around the table enjoying being Jiao's test subjects. The beastmaster has just revealed his new creation as per Wingul's suggestion: a warming, nourishing, cheap snack for Auj Oule's most poor in preparation for the upcoming winter. Named Gaius dumplings to promote the king and his regard for his people, the dumplings are both delicious and purposeful.

Thus Wingul feels pleased enough to indulge Agria, and anyway, he can never quite say no to her. Agria always makes him proud; this time, he'll be sure to return the favor.

So the next day, as Jiao serves the dumplings to the king and the Chimeriad for breakfast, Wingul clears his throat to get everyone's attention.

"Sweet and cute," he deadpans. "Gaius Dumplings. Watch it, stroke it, eat it. A strange sour taste shines through the sweetness. Once you taste it, you fall in love. The King of Sweets!" He pauses, then finishes with an audible flourish, "Gaius Dumplings!"

Gaius's fork slips from slack fingers, clatters to the table. "You can't be serious."

Wingul rolls up the parchment and tucks it into his coat, face pale and grave as the moon. "I most certainly am," he replies. "Proper advertising is essential to the success of any product. We are not simply selling a food item, Your Highness. We are selling your reputation as a king the people love."

Jiao is still staring at him, mouth open. "I cannot believe you wrote that and recited it with a straight face."

"The song does have a melody," Wingul assures him. "I'd be happy to demonstrate-"

"No!" Gaius declines.

"I'd like to hear it," Presa says around her wide grin.

"Absolutely not. For God's sake, Wingul, children are going to hear this."

"But Your Highness," he says innocently, "it's only about your d-"

"Wingul!" the king snaps, clamping his hands over Agria's ears.

"I was only going to say dumplings," Wingul says mildly.

"Sure you were." Presa slings a companionable arm about Wingul's waist. "Although I'd argue it's less about his d-" (Gaius screeches)- "and more about his t-"

"WILL YOU TWO STOP IT!"

Wingul is laughing harder than he can ever remember. Presa is slumped over his shoulder, tears running down her face, as Jiao shakes his head at them ponderously, and Agria watches them with an intense look of concentration, the most sane she's ever seemed, while Gaius fumes about protecting her innocence. And this moment is such warmth; Wingul curls into it, locks the heat into his heart, as it is so precious and so difficult to come by.

"Ruined," Jiao mumbles, staring at his culinary masterpiece with horror. "I'll never be able to eat this now, all I'd think of is-" he breaks off, shuddering. "Horrifying." At Gaius's expression, he adds solicitously, "No offense, Your Highness."

"Actually," Gaius says, "I think I am offended. Are you implying my dumplings wouldn't taste good?"

"They're not your dumplings," Jiao protests. "And anyway, they're too big to be an accurate representation."

Wingul and Presa hoot with laughter. Gaius removes one hand from Agria's ears to point at Jiao with censure. "They are not! In fact, I demand you make them bigger."

"Your Highness, please be reasonable." Jiao shoots Wingul a desperate look.

"He's right, Gaius," Wingul says seriously, repressing his amusement. "They are too big."

This kills Presa. "And if Wingul says so, it must be true!" She dissolves completely, and even Jiao and Agria are smiling.

Gaius stares at them, aghast. What follows is an intense round table discussion of the dumpling song and what kind of message it would send to citizens. Eventually a conclusion is reached that everybody would find it far too amusing to ever take the king seriously again, and Gaius declares the song banned.

Somehow, it still leaks to the public, and to Gaius's fury, becomes a popular Auj Oule folk song for bachelor parties. Wingul, Jiao, and Presa deny having anything to do with it, truthfully so, but Gaius doesn't think to ask Agria and she never volunteers the information.

"I have information you need," the man named Alvin says, and Gaius is too distracted by how tense Presa is next to him to reply.

"Don't trust him," she says in clipped tones. "He's a liar and a traitor."

Alvin focuses on her. Something unreadable flickers in his colored eyes, and a dark instinct suddenly chills Wingul's blood: he knows something terrible is going to happen.

"At least I'm not a whore," Alvin says tranquilly, and Presa physically recoils, knocking her chair to the throne room floor. "But you're all that and more."

"And you're such a fucking poet," she snarls, but Wingul sees her fists tremble at her sides.

"That's enough," Gaius says firmly, but the damage is done. The royal guards are gaping at the scene, and Agria's eyes are dangerously hooded. "Leave," he says to Alvin, who holds his hands up in easy defeat. The second he's out the door, Presa flees.

Gaius, Wingul, Jiao, and Agria stare at each other. "Wingul," the king says, and he's already on his feet and halfway to the door.

She's in her room, on the floor, hunched to her feet with her palms pressed into her eyes. "Go away." Her voice is muffled with pain.

Wingul chooses instead to pull her up. "I won't ask what that was about," he says calmly. "As long as you can tell me if you'll be okay."

For a moment, she doesn't reply. Then her eyes break and she lifts her arms, and Wingul steps into them immediately, wrapping his hands to the small of her back and tucking her head under his chin.

"What he said," he says into her hair as she weeps. "He was wrong. You're not a whore." He pauses, thinks about it. "You were a whore."

To his relief, this cuts Presa's sob into a half-laugh, half-snort. "You dork." She smacks his shoulder, but it doesn't hurt. Pulling back to look up at him, she says solemnly, "Wingul, do you know why I dress like this?"

Wingul thinks of himself and his omnipresent coat. It's lined with thick fur and feathers to keep him warm, but somehow, it's never quite enough. "I think I do."

"Hm." She gives him a small smile, lays her head against his chest again. "Yeah," she agrees softly. "I think you do, too."

Her voice is sad again, filled with cut glass, and it comes to hurt him as if it were rain. "Tell me anyway," he says.

She doesn't reply for the longest time. He holds the pieces of her together, the way the strings of her outfit normally would, but they're not enough tonight, and Wingul won't be stingy with his comfort, not when he knows what it feels like to need in such a fundamentally honest way.

"I'm just-" Presa says miserably. "I'm just so cold. And I don't want to lie anymore. Not any more than I have to."

He pulls away from her, takes off his coat and drapes it around her, belting it tightly to trap her arms against her ribs. "You don't have to lie, Presa. Not with us."

"God, I love you guys," she gasps. She looks like a darkly feathered bird. Her eyes are bright as stars through the ruff of feathers, and Wingul feels strangely like he's seen this before. Like ice water, the feeling rushes over his skin, straight through to his brain. He hugs Presa again, trying to catch the ghost of their shared heat, and she tucks her face into his neck and cries.

"I'm jealous of you," she whispers. "He gives you the most, you know. But I'm grateful, and it's not your fault. I think you probably need it the most." Cold water drips onto his shirt.

"I'm sorry," he says, feeling hollow.

"No, you're not." And she's right, he's not. "But it's okay. He needs it too. We ask so much of you, after all."

"It's not so much."

"It will be," she says soberly. And that's the strange, forbidding truth of it, so they say nothing more, but cling to each other, offering what little warmth and forgiveness they have.

Somehow, it's enough.

When Presa's tired enough to sleep, Wingul heads to the kitchen. He's not surprised that his friends are there, still up so late, waiting to make sure Presa is alright. Gaius is conversing with Jiao in low tones so as to not disturb Agria, who's dozed off in her chair, a light blanket peeling to her lap. She looks so young, and the men look so gentle and worried, that it sends a pang through Wingul's heart. His chest hurts from the emotion of the evening, but he can only think of what a gift that is, that he's never had something to hurt this much for before, never in this way. It heals as it hurts, and that can only be why he's not broken yet.

I love you guys, Presa had said. She hadn't lied. Wingul trusts that. What's not to love? he thinks, in a delicate sort of misery.

"Wingul?" Gaius calls, and he realizes that he's been drifting in the doorway for some time. Clearing his throat, he steps inside the kitchen. The warm, fragrant air from the ovens washes over him like a soft tide; he breathes deeply and his heart settles.

"How is she?" Jiao inquires with a rumble.

"She's hurt badly." He accepts the steaming mug of tea the beastmaster passes to him. "But she's also very strong."

"What an unmitigated disaster," Gaius mumbles into his own mug. "If I'd have known, I would never have allowed it."

This is such a fundamentally Gaius sort of solution that Jiao and Wingul trade tired smiles. "You're the king, Gaius," Jiao says, "nothing less and nothing more."

Gaius snorts, but doesn't say anything. They simply sit, drinking their tea and letting the heat of the fire curl over them, until only dregs are left in the bottom of mugs and the log smolders quietly.

A sigh seems to erupt from Gaius. "Best get to bed then," he says dully. "Early day tomorrow."

Wingul almost smiles. "I'll put Agria to bed," he volunteers, and Jiao passes one large hand over the girl's snowy hair before handing her to him. He walks slowly, mindful of the dark, but he knows this castle better than he knows his own, so he makes the journey easily with only half his attention.

It's Agria who rouses him from the quiet when he's pulling her shoes off. "Wingul?" she asks in a voice tiny from sleep. "Is Presa okay?"

"Yes." He smooths her hair back from her eyes, and she raises her hand to grip his. It's cold, and he rubs it between his own in a futile attempt to warm her up.

She peers into his dark eyes. "Are you okay?"

He suddenly feels on the verge of tears. Blinking slowly, he holds her hand for a while and thinks of the warning he'd felt before Alvin had spoken. The feeling hasn't gone, not yet. He thinks of what it means that Alvin is nearby, now of all times, the dangerous change it represents. Something terrible is going to happen. He thinks of what Presa had said, and how cold they all are, except Gaius who is the flame to their moths. He wonders how Gaius will keep them all warm and bright, how much of himself he'll have to give away, how much Wingul is willing to take.

All of it, he realizes fiercely, with a burn that freezes. And I can risk taking none.

"Wingul?"

"I'm fine," he says. He rests her hand down and stands up to pull the covers over her, tucking her in like a little girl. "I'm just cold."

She gives that manic laugh as he leaves the room, and he feels like he might do the same.

"Gaiusey dolls," Wingul repeats, a glint in his eye.

"No," Gaius says shortly.

"But just think of the commercial I could write."

"I am thinking of it," he growls. "So no."

"No," Lars says, kind as he can be.

It still hurts. "But Father," little Lin says, trying his hardest to sound older. "Even I can see that this is a really bad idea. You've got to take more soldiers with you, this is a trap."

The chief of the Long Dau tribe has little patience when there is a battle to be fought. "Lin, go back home. This is no place for you."

"But if you'll just listen-"

"Lin." The burly man drops to his knees and takes Lin by the shoulders. At eleven years of age, he should be much taller, but Lin has always been too small and too thin, or so it seems to the powerful Long Dau men. Lars looks his son in the eye. "You're smart, I'll give you that. But fighting is not about being smart."

"Yes, it is-"

"No, it's not," Lars says firmly. "Not the way you're thinking of. You think of a fight as a puzzle of logic. Move the right pieces in the right places and you win. But humans are not logical beings, Lin, not in a fight. Not when there's something important enough at stake. I want you to understand this now, because if you don't, you will die in the first real fight you have."

"If I'm smart," Lin argues, "I'll be able to prevent that fight from ever happening."

Lars surprises him by hugging him, crushing Lin's tiny frame against his ironclad chest. "Son," the chief says, "if only that were true. I'd be a lot less afraid for you if it were."

Contrary to popular belief, Wingul enjoys paperwork days. The rest of the team most definitely does not, so there has to be someone who does, but there is a hazy quality of peace in these days.

It comes from the throne room at early dusk, whose gracefully arched windows let in warm hues of orange and gold that hit low in his eyes, making him feel slightly insubstantial. It comes from sitting next to Gaius and listening to the scritch-scratch of their pens as they move across creamy skins of paper, pressing delicate branches of black ink into words, becoming less and less legible as the day wears on. (Jiao can tell what time of day a paper is written and signed down to the quarter hour based solely on Gaius or Wingul's penmanship.)

It comes from working quietly with Gaius, as the rest of the team usually gives up by noon and wanders away on the pretext of lunch, and nobody even bothers asking Agria to help since the first and only time they had done so, which had resulted in shoes being declared illegal for a week. It went unnoticed until peasants started showing up to Gaius's meetings with bare, blistered feet.

Wingul internally smiles at the memory. Gaius had been so touched that they'd actually followed the ridiculous rule just because they thought he'd decreed it that he'd been speechless for several minutes. This is why we're doing this, Wingul reflects. This is why I'm doing this. A king the people love. A government that-

"Baa-aaa-aaah."

Wingul blinks. Looks up. Sees nothing but Gaius twirling his pen in complicated spirals and looking unfathomably bored.

Must have been the wind. Wingul turns back to the treatise and lifts his pen, touches it to the paper-

"BAA-AAA-AAAH!"

Wingul curses as black ink veers wildly into "we humbly request" and Gaius stifles a laugh.

"…" They stare at each other. Gaius smiles. Wingul does not.

"Baaaaaa-aaa-aaa-aaa-aaaa."

"Your Highness, can you not."

His smile stretches wider. "Bruk-bruk-BRUKAWK!"

"Arst, no."

He replies with a dead ringer for a bull mastiff.

There is a moment of poignant silence as black and red eyes stare each other down. Then-

"MRAAAOOOOW."

Gaius nearly falls out of his chair as angry cat noises erupt, while Wingul calmly straightens his papers. Incredulous, the king asks, "Did you just-"

The prime minister responds with a strangled hissing sound and then Gaius says, "Oh, it is on," and when Presa and Jiao bring supper several minutes later, it sounds as if wild tigers and elephants are rampaging in the throne room. Alarmed, Presa immediately draws her weapon and they burst through the double doors.

"And that's why the porange market is seeing a ten point stock increase," Wingul is saying. "Hello, you two."

They pull up short, completely confused. "Hello?" Presa says uncertainly.

Gaius eyes her with amusement. "Are you going to kill us?"

"What? No," she answers distractedly. "What were you two doing? It sounded like a zoo in here."

"A zoo?" Wingul raises one thin eyebrow. "Nothing here but us, I assure you."

"Right," Jiao says slowly, setting down the tray. He and Presa exchange glances, then peek at the king, who returns their look with bored dismissal. "Okay then. We'll… leave you to it."

"Goodnight," Wingul says idly.

"Goodnight," they echo. They've almost reached the doors when a sudden explosion of vicious pterodactyl screeches causes both Chimeriads to yell and jump violently. They whirl around to see Gaius convulsing so hard that his chair topples to the ground, yet Wingul is unreactive as ever. He's sampling the chicken noodle soup.

"Jiao, this is delicious," he compliments the beastmaster.

Jiao is so angry that he marches straight up to the prime minister and confiscates his bowl. "No soup for you!"

The night after his uncle's funeral, Lin wakes up to find his mother perched silently at the end of his bed. He sits up slowly and clambers to her side.

"Mother?"

"I'm sorry I woke you, Lin." His mother looks so sad that he immediately hugs her. "I was worried about you."

Lars had said much the same before he'd died. "What is it about me that makes you worry?" he asks, petulant and curious.

She shakes her head and presses her cheek into his soft, clean hair. "Oh, Lin." She takes a long, rattling breath, thinking of what to say. "You look like you feel nothing, like you're strong, you're untouchable, and that's fine, that's what your father taught you. What we all taught you." She rests her forehead against his. He can feel the sheen of cold sweat. "But you're not any of those things, Lin," she whispers. "You're not strong. You love too much for that. I know because you're just like me."

"Don't be silly, mother." Stung, he tries to pull away, but her grip is suddenly unbreakable.

"You have to listen to me, Lin." She pulls his hands to her face and holds them there, and she's so cold that Lin catches his breath. It's like being dipped in ice water. "Do you feel that, Lin? Do you feel that cold? It's what protects us."

"What are you talking about?" He tugs at his hands uselessly.

"I knew," she says, and her eyes are bright as frozen stars. "I knew from the second you were born that you'd be cold all your life. But I was happy, Lin. So happy. You have a gift. Stay cold. It'll protect you."

"Protect me from what?"

"You have to stay cold." She's crying now, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes in a silent march, but her voice doesn't break. "Because you aren't strong enough to protect what makes you warm. And losing it will turn you to ice. You can't move, you can't think. All you can do is curl up and die."

"Mom," he says, scared. "Are-are you alright?"

Unexpectedly, her grip loosens, but he doesn't let go. She strokes his small back and presses him to her, and he can still smell the funeral flowers.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't scare you like this, but you have to know. Go to sleep, Lin. Things will be better tomorrow."

"Okay," he says, deeply disturbed.

She kisses him on the hollow between his eye and nose, as she'd done since he was a child. It's a comforting gesture, and on impulse, he returns the kiss. "Don't worry," he says. "We'll get through this just fine. It's hard now, but it'll be okay."

"Yes." His mother seems lost in thought. She tucks in the blanket around him. For a second, her hand pauses as it smooths his hair from his eyes. "It'll be better tomorrow," she says.

Tomorrow begins with another funeral. Lin, however, does not attend. While the service is read outside his window, he burrows under his blanket, tucking it around himself as tightly as he can, which is not very much. Shaking with cold, he lays his face into the covers, closes his eyes, and vows that this will be the last weakness he will allow himself.

Tomorrow, he'll be strong. Tomorrow, he'll be untouchable. Today, he just can't, not yet, not yet.

It only takes Presa two minutes to notice the king and the prime minister are passing notes to each other during court like schoolgirls. She waits until Gaius's hand drops below the table to kick Wingul hard in the shins, and immediately claims the fumbled slip of paper. To her annoyance, Wingul doesn't twitch a muscle except to shoot her a quick glare as soon as the nobleman complaining about taxes looks away. She returns it with a smug smirk.

Then she looks down and tries to read whatever Gaius wrote. "What is this?" she hisses, disappointed.

Both men are wearing the smirks now, but don't say anything, keeping their eyes on their audience.

"Is this a code?" she mutters, turning the paper around and around. "It can't be. I'm the spy. I know all the codes." Frosted eyes narrow in suspicion. "Did you… did you two make up your own?" she asks incredulously.

Gaius can't help himself; despite Wingul's warning look, his mouth curls just the slightest.

"Oh, my God," Presa says loudly. "You dorks."

"Excuse me," says the nobleman, highly affronted.

"No, not you," she says impatiently.

Gaius coughs discreetly. "No disrespect was meant," he tells the reddening man. "Please continue."

Ten minutes of determined codebreaking later, Presa puts the paper back in Gaius's lap. One eyebrow raised, he reads it quickly, mouthing the words to himself. Then he laughs quietly and passes it to Wingul, who does the same.

ALL the disrespect was meant. DORKS

"Are you okay?" Gaius asks, eyeing his shivering form.

"I'm fine," Wingul says, the practiced words tripping from his chattering teeth. "I'm just cold."

"Oh." The burly, thinly-dressed man who seems perfectly comfortable in a blizzard looks sympathetic. Wingul thinks about how absurd that is. And then- "It's probably because you're short."

"Excuse me?" Wingul says in disbelief.

"Ah," he says hilariously. Takes his coat off and wraps it around Wingul's thin shoulders. "I didn't mean it that way. It's just that you're, well, kind of small. Smaller people have a higher surface-to-volume ratio than larger people and consequently lose heat faster."

Wingul stares. "Oh. Okay." He thinks about it. "I didn't realize the laws of nature were so biased against smaller people."

Gaius hums noncommittally and sits down next to him. His heat wraps around Wingul immediately like a third coat, and he feels the most comforted, the happiest he's ever been. "I think it's got the right idea," he says, and smiles. "You'd take over the world if somebody didn't do something about it."

"Ha." A few moments of ever-thickening snow pass by. "I would, though." He stares ahead, keenly conscious of Gaius looking at him. "Take over, I mean. If somebody didn't do something about it."

"Is that so." Gaius considers him for a while. "Then I'm glad. The world could do far worse than you."

Wingul huffs with amusement. "Thank goodness it doesn't have to."

"You never know." Now Gaius is looking ahead, too. Their shoulders press together, and the pouring snow is a soft cocoon: Wingul feels fresh with life. "You never know."

Making the decision to get the booster implant is the easiest thing Wingul has ever done.

Facing Gaius afterwards is by far the most difficult.

"Why did you do this?" Gaius demands. He's the most angry Wingul's ever seen him, so angry that he's actually shaking. "What possible reason could you have to do this to yourself?"

Wingul swallows. His head feels like a cardboard box in a compactor, the residue of the surgery, but it is nothing compared to the closing vice on his chest. "You don't know?"

"No," Gaius seethes. "I don't know. You're supposed to be the smart one." This makes Wingul flinch. "All I know is that this-" he points at the implant like a malediction, "-will kill you. You have no right to die, Wingul. You can't leave me alone, ever."

And just like that, all of Wingul's strength saps away. He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to hold them open any longer. "You ask such things of me, Arst," he says around the thick pain in the back of his throat.

Gaius pauses. He can sense him moving closer. "I didn't realize I asked too much," he says, and to Wingul's horror, his voice is cold.

"I'm not strong enough," he blurts in a panic. "I'm not. I can't- I mean." He struggles, thinks blindly of what his mother had said, the last time she held him before she killed herself. He thinks of what his father said before he left home, alive for the last time. "If I'm not strong enough, I'll die anyway. And then I really wouldn't be able to do anything for you."

Gaius doesn't reply. His eyes are still furious, like burning coals, and for the first time, the heat is unwelcome.

"I was so alone," Wingul says. "And I owe you so much." His head pounds in time with his heart. "If my pain and death is what it takes to honor that, then I'm not sorry." Only he doesn't actually say all of that. He's not strong enough, not yet, not yet. So he only says, "I'm not sorry," and collapses back into his hospital bed as Gaius turns wordlessly and leaves.

Wingul has only ever felt so cold once before in his life, but this is worse, far worse. It's a numbing kind of chill so he doesn't shiver, as if he's already hypothermic and on the verge of death. He tries halfheartedly to tuck the blanket about him, but he's never been any good at it, and movement is making him dizzy.

He gives up and lays down, closes his eyes against the cool linen. Counts the beats of his heart to distract himself from the pain. It's much too slow, but it's too trivial and helpless a thing to do anything about it, let alone care.

It takes a few weeks for them to talk normally again. Breakfasts are long and awkward, but they both still attend, and an unruffled Jiao goes about his business as usual, though Wingul notices that the meals are heated a few degrees warmer than usual. Agria stares at them from under hooded lids, but only Presa doesn't react to the stony silence at all. It's only when Gaius leaves the kitchen first that she drops the façade and hugs Wingul tightly.

Their friendship eventually recovers, and life between the king and his Chimeriad resumes. But Wingul remembers that encroaching cold, and he fears it more than death itself.

Wingul never apologizes to Gaius about the booster. Gaius never asks him to.

Breaths leak out of him in frantic turns. He doesn't mind. He stares up at the restless sky, unseeing. He doesn't feel cold, anymore. He doesn't feel anything at all.

"Forgive me, Arst," Lin says, and Arst has nothing to say to that.