Ilik did not sleep like the others.
He sat just beyond the edge of the firelight, sharpening a blade that had dulled weeks ago. His hands moved in the slow, repetitive rhythm of someone who had forgotten what it meant to finish a task — he simply kept going, like time only existed in motion.
The mountains had taught him that.
They had also taught him how long it takes a man to freeze solid with his eyes still open.
Elias sat across from him, silent, arms folded over his knees. The children were asleep inside the crumbled chapel, wrapped in threadbare cloth and what warmth they could steal from one another.
"You were a teacher once," Ilik said, breaking the silence.
"I still am," Elias replied. "In a way."
Ilik gave a faint smile. "And I was a scout. Before my regiment vanished into snow. Funny how those jobs don't matter anymore."
He looked at his knife, then at Elias. "Do you remember what it felt like to wake up and not be afraid?"
Elias didn't answer.
"I do," Ilik continued. "Just barely. It was spring, I think. Real spring. The kind with mud and bees and something stupid like hope." He chuckled. "We used to play cards after drills. One guy—Serenko—he had this trick with matches, made them stand on their heads. Swore he'd open a shop after the war."
Elias looked up. "What happened?"
"Starved in a trench before winter came."
The fire cracked. A soft wind moved through the chapel's broken windows, bringing the scent of old wax and wet ash.
"We buried him in a box of ammunition," Ilik added. "It's what we had."
Silence again. He looked toward the chapel where Rana stirred in her sleep, mumbling words that didn't belong in dreams.
Ilik leaned forward, voice lower. "These kids… they're not going to make it, are they?"
Elias stared at the flames.
"No," he said. "But I'm not going to let them die easily."