Escaping the storm is tricky, because while there’s the bait in place, my cloak’s enchantment also starts flickering more and more. The mana coursing through the enchantments grows unsteady, and it stops hiding my presence properly. The brief flashes of warmth escaping outside both make me a lot colder and allow the wraiths to see me.

  And the ones who are too far from the bait? They prefer me.

  [You have killed a lv. 32 Fogfae]

  [You have killed a lv. 39 Fogfae]

  [Level up! 32 > 33]

  All three points instantly go into vessel, refuelling my mana to [Deconstruct] more of the fae. Finding their cores and then tearing them apart is all it takes, since they can’t hit me with manifested claws - I just break those apart - and the cold has a really tough time penetrating the cloak I’d spent close to a month on.

  It’s just that good at keeping the cold out that their icy grip can’t worm its way into my heart.

  But they still strain the enchantments. The cloak was made for this kind of cold, but at the end of the day, it’s still slapdash. With the amount of mana burning through it, it’s only a matter of time until it breaks, and each time I get hit by another swipe of misty claws, it degrades more. The fabric frays, the enchantments burn, and I’m not yet halfway through the snow.

  So, I keep running, and running, and running on ahead.

  I duck under a swipe of claws, rolling through the wet snow, my face stinging for just a moment as my skin makes contact before heat bursts back into my blood. I dodge to the side, I destroy half a fae, I suppress another and run past. A short sword of solid mana forms in my hand, being used to turn aside blows and fight through the weather, even as needles of ice slam into my skin, breaking apart.

  Then, one of the flickers stops the heating.

  Instantly, ice clutches around my chest. I can feel my blood freezing in my veins, the way the heat leaches out of me in moments. It fucking hurts, but a tenth of a second later, the enchantment sputters back to life, and heat floods through me like a wildfire.

  It burns through my veins with a second burst of pain, my cells protesting the rapid changes in temperature. My skin cracks and starts bleeding from the contraction and subsequent expansion.

  Blood pools in red lines across me, but that’s fine. I slash my sword, beating aside another wraith and run, knowing that the storm will eventually ebb. All around me, the wind is tearing towards the bait, hungrily latching on to that beacon, made for the fae. Hundreds, maybe thousands of the creatures, run towards that part, and those who don’t want to go there are taken with the others.

  Auras of frost and starvation brush by me, and I feel the hunger flare up again, but they all get suppressed. Each bit of complaint I feel gets tossed to the skill and devoured. Not a peep leaves my mouth as I sprint through the snow as fast as I can, each breath misting and making my mouth ache from the heating and cooling.

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  [Suppression 13 > 14]

  Bit by bit, my mana drains. I fight the cold, the fae, the storm itself, the hunger, all of it. Every step is demanding, my body wanting to give up already, to just lay down and sleep, but I refuse to let it. I run, until the needles turn back to the heavy slush, slowing me down further. The snow is deep, too deep to sprint, so I can only manage a brisk walk, giving the fae more opportunities to descend on me.

  The enchantment flickers again, calling them to me, making my skin crack in the terrible cold. I grit my teeth and tear more of the things apart, pouring droves of mana into the skill.

  [Deconstruction 10 > 11]

  My epitaph feeds off the murders, refilling mana with what remained of the ephemeral things. Bits of icy fog turn into mana, devoured by my apathy. My sword rings out whenever I fail to dispel their claws quickly enough, and I walk on, as fast as I can.

  I move for minutes, the enchantment flickering more often, until a part of it finally breaks. My feet go numb rather quickly from there, but I still walk on, holding the pain at bay, trying to stop the cold from invading me. Yet, while focusing on so many different things, my focus lapses. A claw cuts into me, carving through a part of the cloak and leaving a long rent on my side. Instantly, blood pools on the outside of the wound, then freezes over.

  More of the enchantments fail. I frown, and march ever onward. The snow is thinning, slowly, but the cold is still unbearable. It would kill me in a minute if I passed out, so I don’t. My eyes stay open, and I place one foot in front of the other, step by step.

  Wraiths pour towards me when they spot me, but there are fewer of them. I walk, I cut, I destroy and devour and keep moving.

  The storm thins, step by step. The snow lessens. Each icy breath burns a little less.

  And then my legs give in.

  It takes me a second to notice. I try to lift my other leg, simply having expected the first to move, but when I shift my balance, I tilt forward. My arm flashes out, shortsword falling from my hand, reaching into the snow to stop my face from crashing into it.

  Ice shoots up my veins, and my skin begins to freeze over. Abominable cold crawls into me, instantly numbing my arm. I can see it shaking, even though I can barely feel it. Very slowly, my elbow starts folding, even as I command it to remain up. Claws slice across my back, filling it with ice.

  My face touches the snow. The tip of my nose goes cold instantly. A sheet of white fills my eyes, promising me death. I can feel my Abiding Apathy stir at the thought. It doesn’t even care at the thought of dying, feeding off of that prospect, devouring the fleeting, ephemeral despair.

  Slowly, I smile. My eyes sink into the snow, and it burns. The mark on the side of my face, Flametouched, is the only bit of warmth I retain. My skin turns ashen.

  And still, I won. The storm is drifting away. Towards the bait. I can feel ghostly teeth sinking into my side, before I swat them away like a fly with [Deconstruction]. My last wisps of mana dispel the fae, but it doesn’t matter.

  The cold embraces me. I close my eyes. My friends will live. Maybe that’s enough.

  Then, a hand wraps around me.

  “Get up, lazy idiot,” Thatch demands, dragging me to stand. He wraps my numb arm around his shoulder, but with me being unable to stand, that ends up being awkward. Instead, he just scoops me up into a princess carry. “Let’s get you home. I’ll call you a moron later.” He even has the audacity to shoot me a cheeky wink.

  What a reliable guy. He presses a cube of fire and mana against my chest, right where my heart is, and I smile, ever so faintly. Not dying quite yet. Get fucked, tower. I close my eyes, knowing I’ll get home safe.