On the Glacial Mountain, the snow continued to fall.
It lay a hand deep on the golden eaves of the monastery and drifted against the arched door, and it filled the air so completely that the far slopes had gone grey and then simply vanished.
A few Conduit Lifeforms sheltered under the roof, their light dimmed to embers.
Out on the open shelf, two figures sat facing each other, and only one of them was comfortable.
Noah wore nothing heavier than thin garments of his own Provenance, and the snow slid off his crystalline shoulders as if it had been a feather all along.
Across from him, Achilles sat buried in a coat of many-colored authorty so thick it looked like armor, and still, every little while, a shiver ran through him.
Noah closed his eyes.
His Provenance moved around him in slow blue-gold rivers, and he let himself feel all of it, the turning of his Root, the weight of his existence settling deeper into itself. What he felt was simple.
It felt good!
