The Brass Claim

I decide to map the snowdrift against the north wall before the ink freezes. It is a hard deadline for my sanity, and I keep my sanity by keeping my edges sharp.

The storm is expected to last three days, and the fire is low. I can hear the wind stripping the bark off the pines outside, a sound like tearing canvas, but inside the waystation, the only noise is the crackle of pine resin and the heavy, wet breathing of the beast in the corner.

Idris steps into my line of sight, brushing a sheet of ice from his heavy wool coat. He is built like the mountains he climbs—broad, solid, unapologetic in his space. His hands are scarred and soot-stained, the hands of a man who handles fire and scale without flinching. He looks at me, and his eyes are already soft, that open, warm regard that makes me want to check my list and find I’ve forgotten to account for distraction.