The World Begins to Breathe Again

[Prof. Sindor Aloyarc]

By the time you and Finn return to The Beastkeepers’ Lodge, the path through is already softer. The trees hum faintly with meltwater, and the snow no longer crunches beneath your boots.

Orla traveled separately and has arrived ahead of you. The door is open. Inside, the hearth glows low but steady, a single ember still alive in the ashes. She looks up as you enter, her smile full of knowing.

“You feel it, don’t you?” she asks. “That it’s done!”

You nod. “The Snowbeasts have found their rhythm again. The Heart of Winter beats true.”

Orla gestures for you to sit. “Good.” She pours steaming mugs of something that smells like peppermint and pine. Finn jumps into your lap uninvited, curls his tail around your wrist, and purrs like a small thundercloud.

Outside, dawn begins to spread across the snowfields. Pale light catches on the ice-crusted branches, turning the forest into a cathedral of glass. For a moment the world exhales.

“It’s funny,” you say. “After all that, it feels quiet here.”

“That’s what real magic sounds like,” Orla replies. “Quiet isn’t empty. It’s full! Full of everything that’s been set right again.”

You let that thought settle in your chest. In the stillness, you can almost hear the slow pulse of the earth beneath you. The same one the Whispering Hares once listened to. The same rhythm that the Glacier Turtles walked, that the Silver Wolves danced, that every Snowbeast carried in its own way.

Finn lifts his head suddenly. “Listen,” he murmurs.

Far away, a deep, rolling sound moves through the forest. A beautiful sound, like laughter. The Snowbeasts are migrating home.

You rise and step to the window. The horizon gleams faintly gold, and the first flakes of new snow drift down.

Behind you, Orla’s voice is a whisper. “Every winter must learn how to end. Every light must learn how to return.”

You turn back, but the chair where she sat is empty. Only her mug remains, steam floating upward like a ghost.
Finn leaps to the windowsill and flicks his tail. “Come on,” he says, full of cheer. “Let’s go make our own footprints before the thaw.”

You laugh, pulling on your cloak. The door opens with a creak, and the cold air that greets you is bright.

As you step outside, you realize that the snow beneath your feet is singing a soft, steady rhythm, like the heartbeat of the world reminding you that everything still moves and grows.

Everything returns.