Careful not to jolt the pile of my makeshift bureau, I hunch over the little pan and spot the first tiny bubbles forming at the bottom. Briefly, I ponder how a bigger stove would melt the ice quicker, then I sniff in dismissal. Despite the draft, hot greasy vapour stings my nostrils. A bigger stove would be too bulky to carry. I shrug and return to studying the water.

          A rap at the door frame draws my attention. “Captain Ganse?” I glance at the man standing there. Tall, slim, athletic, even handsome perhaps, if you like that kind of thing, but above all else, an invaluable asset. I’m glad I could recruit him to my small and otherwise inexperienced patrol. He could surely find more attractive offers elsewhere in the Aether Guard.

          “Come in Sergeant Wynter. What is it?” I don’t really need to ask. I know exactly what it is. We have been through this routine so often. Three patrol sweeps at this watch post and on countless occasions before. Nevertheless, I like to stick to the ritual. A routine is an excellent way to detect the onset of that debilitating dementia, Shadow Fatigue.

          Yes indeed, a lack of routine can prove fatal.

          He steps through the doorless frame into my office. “Everything’s ready. Let’s go kill some Spawn.”

          I point my chin at the stove. “Not quite everything.” The first faint wisps are rising from the surface, but my breath is still making bigger clouds. What happened to spring? My hands push deeper into the pockets of my heavy riding coat. “These need to be properly cooked first.”

          “They would boil a lot quicker if you started with warm water from the cooking fire instead of melting a pot full of solid ice over that tiny flame.”

          I shake my head. “As the manual states, it has to be like it has to be.” If only the weather understood this.

          “I know, I know. And always was as it ever shall be.” He sighs.

          Tiny silvery spheres swell at the bottom of the pan. A first bubble rolls up the flattened face of one of the submerged glass bulbs. At the rounded edge, it pauses before breaking free and rising straight to the surface. It pops. The Sergeant is still standing there. I glance at him. “Problem?”

          “It’s cold outside.”

          It is never cosy at this altitude. “And in here, too.”

          “Yes, but the men are exposed to the wind.”

          Despite the heavy leather riding boots, the persistent draft has chilled my feet to stone, but he is probably right. “Snow?” Back in the homelands, spring’s bright riot is probably already giving way to the dignity of summer.