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[color=808080][color=A64017][b]#A64017[/b][/color] [color=2e2c2c]....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [url=https://i.pinimg.com/1200x/10/41/d8/1041d80ed791b19addb1ab7fd8a86c9d.jpg][color=808080][b]outfit[/b][/color][/url] [color=2e2c2c].....[/color]|[color=2e2c2c].....[/color] [b]his cabin > arena[/b][/color]
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[indent][indent][indent][indent][justify][color=808080]Colton hadn’t made it five steps down the path before the grin faded from his face, not in a bad way, just in that quiet, settling way things did when you were alone again. The cold felt sharper without Sloane’s easy presence beside him, but not unfriendly. More like a reminder that he was somewhere new, somewhere real, somewhere that demanded he pay attention.

Snow stretched across Camp Athens like a fresh coat of paint, soft and unbroken except for the single trail of bootprints he was leaving behind. The morning had shaken itself halfway awake;  distant doors opening with muted thuds, the muffled scrape of someone shoveling out a walkway, or perhaps cleaning off the stairs of their cabin, it was peaceful in a way he hadn’t expected, and some of the tension that had lined his frame seemed to drain away. It was the sort of place one could grow to call home, if they wanted.

His breath fogged in front of him as he walked, hands tucked deep in his jacket pockets, map edges poking his ribs like a persistent reminder. But truth be told, he didn’t need the map for this first stretch. The camp might’ve been new, sprawling, and strange, but there was a rhythm to it he recognized. Snow crunching underfoot. Pines creaking overhead. Somewhere to his right, a cabin door slammed and someone cursed loudly when they realized how biting the cold bit was.

It wasn’t silence, not really. Just quiet with personality.

Colton exhaled slowly, letting the cold nip at his cheeks and nose. He’d grown up with rare winters that buried tractors and iced over the creek till the cattle drank from buckets instead. Most of the time, it stayed pleasantly cool, not much snow to speak of. This… this felt familiar enough to tug at something warm in his chest, but it was still a little colder, different in a way he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

Then he saw it.

His new home away from home, stood tucked between two tall pines, looking like it had been plucked straight off a postcard of rural living. Rustic barnhouse bones, white siding with the faint texture of old paint, a dark brown door sturdy enough to survive a bull trying to nudge it open. Firewood was stacked neatly beneath the windows, sheltered by an awning that sagged slightly under the weight of collected snow. And off to the right side, a sturdy looking wood shed attached like an afterthought— or more likely, like someone had needed space for tools and built it with their own two hands.

A breath hitched in his throat unexpectedly. [i]Looks just like home.[/i] The thought slipped in before he could brace for it. Not painfully, no, it landed gentle, warm, like seeing an old quilt you’d forgotten you loved. He stepped up to the porch, boots thumping softly against the wooden planks. The woodpile smelled faintly of pine resin and cold bark, and for a moment he could almost hear the distant hum of his family’s farm. Dad splitting logs in the early hours, Ma humming while she rolled biscuits, the sounds of his younger siblings laughing and playing in the yard.

Colton swallowed, jaw tightening for half a second before he let the feeling move through him and ease. [color=A64017]“Well,”[/color] he murmured to himself, hand wrapping around the doorknob. [color=A64017]“Ain’t half bad.”[/color] The cabin’s door creaked when it opened, which, honestly, made him grin again. A place with character. A place that didn’t feel temporary. He stepped inside, warmth brushing over his cold-nipped skin, and shut the door behind him. His duffel landed on the floor with a soft thud as he pulled off his jacket, rolling his shoulders to shake out the chill.

Training waited for him. New faces, new expectations, new everything. But for the first time since starting that long hike toward Camp Athens, Colton felt something settle inside him, a quiet certainty that maybe, just maybe, he’d landed exactly where he was meant to be. He grabbed the fresh clothes he’d stuffed in the top of his bag and began changing, breath steady, heart a little lighter. Outside, beyond the snowy windows, the camp continued waking, and he took in the old white paint, the wooden beams in the roof, the worn floors, and the small kitchen. It was all quite nice, so [i]him[/i] that it felt absurd to think this cabin had belonged to anyone prior to now. 

Colton tugged his fresh shirt into place before tugging on a crewneck, the fabric warm and familiar against his skin. The chill still clung to him, lingering in the ends of his hair and along the backs of his hands, so he made his way to the woodstove tucked neatly in the corner. Someone had left it cleaned out and ready, a generosity that eased something in his chest he didn’t quite have a name for. [i]Or,[/i] he wondered vaguely. [i]Was it waiting for me like this? Untouched before now?[/i] It was a question he had no answers for, so he didn’t bother chasing it. He knelt, stacking a few pieces of split pine the way his father had taught him,  smallest kindling first, then the thin sticks that snapped easily between his fingers, then one good log to catch and hold. A spark from the flint, one quick breath, and the fire crackled to life, orange light blooming against the iron walls of the stove. He knew he could have done it the easy way, calling the flames to the tips of his fingers to light the fire, but this was more soothing to Colton.

It wasn’t much, but it’d warm the place by the time he got back. A small welcome for his future self. [color=A64017]“Atta boy,”[/color] he muttered to the flame like it was a skittish horse, dusting off his hands before grabbing his duffel. The stairs creaked on his way up, each wooden groan echoing pleasantly in the quiet. The bedroom was simple, bed, dresser, window overlooking the pines, saloon style doors that led to the bathroom, but the moment his eyes landed on the mattress, every bone in his body seemed to sigh. A soft, bright looking duvet, thick pillows, the kind of bed that asked kindly rather than demanded a good nap.

For a dangerous heartbeat, he imagined faceplanting right into it. Boots off, flannel on, out like a light. He scrubbed a hand over his jaw and exhaled through his nose. [color=A64017]“Nope. Nope, we ain’t doin’ that,”[/color] he said to the empty room, dropping the bag beside the dresser before the temptation swallowed him whole. Training. Sloane. The day ahead. He had things to do, people to meet, ways to not embarrass himself by showing up half asleep. With one last longing look at the bed, traitorous, cozy thing, he turned and trudged back downstairs. The cabin felt warmer already, the fire settling into a steady crackle. He crossed to the little kitchen and tugged open the fridge, expecting maybe… nothing. Or worse, something left by the last inhabitant he’d have to throw out. Instead, a row of water bottles greeted him, lined up like someone had been thoughtful, and clearly diagnosed with OCD, ahead of time.

[color=A64017]“Well I’ll be damned,”[/color] he murmured, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He grabbed one, the plastic cool in his hand, and shut the fridge with a gentle tap of his knuckles. Jacket on, scarf looped once around his neck, he stepped into his boots by the door, giving each heel a firm stomp to settle them. For a moment he paused, hand braced on the frame, taking in the quiet of his new home, the soft glow of the fire, the scent of warming pine, the stillness that felt like it had been waiting specifically for him. He wished— Colt swallowed around the thought, smothering it before it could fully form.

Then he stepped back into the cold. Snow whispered under his feet as the door shut behind him, and he set off toward the arena, bottle in hand, breath fogging the air, heart steady and ready. The cold met him like an old acquaintance, sharp at first, then familiar, then almost welcoming. Colton took his first few steps down the porch, boots sinking into the soft layer of fresh snow, and the world around him breathed its quiet winter rhythm. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, catching on his hair, melting on the heat of his cheeks. The path toward the arena wasn’t difficult to follow, a faint groove where countless feet had already passed, but right now it felt like it existed for him alone.

Pine clung to the air, sweet, cold, resin-thick. Somewhere not too far off, a cabin chimney released a steady plume of smoke, the scent of burning oak and cedar curling through the camp like a memory. Woodfire always made him think of home. Of rare early winter mornings with frost on the windows and Ma standing over the stove, stirring something warm and slow. Of his Pa’s laugh echoing through the workshop. Of—

His chest tightened.

The house fire came back to him the way it always did, not as a clear picture, but as a swell of heat and noise, of orange light and choking smoke. The shape of his brothers behind it, unreachable, fading. The sound he made, something raw, something that didn’t even feel human, still lived somewhere in him, lodged like a splinter he couldn’t dig out.

Colton slowed, breath catching. Not now.

He blinked hard, let out a slow exhale that clouded the air in front of him, and nudged the memory aside. Not forgotten. Never forgotten. But set down gently, for the moment. His mind grabbed for something brighter, something lighter, and, naturally, it found Sloane. The corner of his mouth twitched up. Funny how fast that’d happened. He’d known her all of what, an hour? Two? and yet the thought of her made the cold feel less sharp, made his steps feel steadier. Making a friend in a place where everything was new should’ve felt impossible, but instead it felt… easy. Maybe that was her doing, with her tired smile and her puppy and her quiet but undeniable warmth. Or maybe he’d just been lonelier than he let himself admit.

The arena came into view through the trees, its tall walls dusted with snow, banners hanging stiff and frosted. Colton’s steps slowed a fraction, the first flicker of nerves tapping at the back of his ribs. [i]Training.[/i] Gods, what if he looked like an idiot? Everyone else probably knew what they were doing. They’d been here longer. They’d have technique, experience, and reputations. He had… a farm background, a forge, maybe, and the ability to accidentally set things on fire when stressed.

[i]Terrific résumé,[/i] he thought wryly.

His stomach fluttered, just enough to make him aware of it. A soft, crawling anxiety that he expected to grow teeth and sink them in deeper. Except… it didn’t. He kept walking, and it softened. Faded. As if the cold air and the pine and the snow underfoot took the edge off before it could settle. As if the heaviness he expected wasn’t quite as heavy anymore. Maybe it was the cabin. Maybe it was the fire. Maybe it was Sloane’s laugh echoing in his memory like someone tossing him a rope in the dark. Maybe it was just knowing he wasn’t headed into this day completely alone, that he had a sister somewhere in this camp. Whatever it was, the fear couldn’t get its footing. Not today. Colton rolled his shoulders, tightened his grip on the water bottle, and let the cold refill his lungs. He wasn’t fearless. Far from it. But walking toward the arena, breath fogging the air, snow whispering beneath his boots, he felt, strangely, ready.

Or at least willing. And sometimes, that was all a man needed to start. 

Colton slipped through the archway into the arena, boots scuffing lightly against stone instead of snow, and the first thing that hit him was the warmth. He blinked, confused and startled. It wasn’t hot by any stretch, this was still a massive, open-air space afterall, but it was [i]warmer[/i] than outside, enough that the bite of winter eased off his cheeks and fingertips. Maybe some kind of enchantment. Maybe just good design. Either way, it made his shoulders unclench more than he expected.

The arena stretched out wide before him, packed earth dusted with the faintest skim of frost, rows of benches carved into the stone, scattered clusters of early arrivals, some talking in low murmurs, others sitting by themselves. Most looked like they already knew each other, though he didn’t spot Sloane amongst their numbers. Colton hesitated only a moment before angling toward the edge of the seating. No sense in inserting himself into a group that didn’t know his name yet. He found an empty bench a ways up, tucked against a pillar where the shade cut diagonally across the stone, and dropped onto it with a quiet exhale. The bench was cool beneath him, but not unpleasant. Warm enough that he didn’t immediately miss the fire he’d left crackling back in his cabin. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, bottle hanging loose from his fingers as he looked out over the arena floor. His breath didn’t fog anymore, not really, which only confirmed that the warmth wasn’t his imagination.

Colton took it all in as slowly, the steady hum of a place waking up to its own rhythm. The nerves flickered again, small, manageable, almost polite this time, but they didn’t stick. Didn’t grow. Instead, he felt… settled. Grounded. Like the earth beneath the arena floor had a pulse, and for once, his own heartbeat didn’t feel out of sync with it. He sat back, letting his shoulders relax against the stone wall behind him.[/color][/justify][/indent][/indent][/indent][/indent]

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