Callum leans closer to read the screen, near enough that I catch his cedar scent. “That puts everything at risk. The ski-joring course, the ice sculptures—“
“The sculptures alone represent thousands in commission fees for local artists,” I finish. “This could devastate the festival budget.”
“Not to mention disappointing every kid in Silverwood,” Callum adds.
My mind races through options. “Wait—Nyxiana and Kaspian. Their vampire nature maintains a constant lower body temperature. If they positioned themselves strategically...”
Callum’s eyes meet mine. “Cold-keeping. We could create temperature control zones.”
“Their ambient temperature extends about fifteen feet in still air,” I say, already calculating. “If we position them at opposite ends of the festival grounds—“
“We could maintain snow integrity and preserve the sculptures.” He pulls out his phone. “I’ll get them here.”
Within minutes, both vampires arrive at the planning room. When we explain the situation, Nyxiana looks momentarily surprised, then thoughtful. “You want to use our coldness as a feature rather than something to hide?”
“Exactly,” I confirm. “Your natural temperature regulation could save the entire festival.”
Kaspian grins. “Finally, a practical use for being naturally frigid.”
“The physiological mechanics would work,” Nyxiana explains. “We naturally pull ambient heat toward ourselves, creating cold zones. We could maintain it for eight to ten hours without strain.”
Callum spreads out the festival map. “If we position you here and here, we create overlapping cold zones covering the main areas.”
“You’d need to rotate positions every few hours,” I add. “And we should warn attendees about temperature variations.”
“We could add signage,” Kaspian suggests. “‘Winter Magic Zones’ or something similar.”
With the vampire solution in place, we return to the course adjustments. Callum draws an alternative path on the map. “If we shift this segment to stay in the mountain shadow here, we keep firmer snow conditions. Nyxiana and Kaspian can focus their cold-keeping efforts on the start and finish areas instead of spreading too thin.”
I trace the new route, mentally recalculating emergency access. “That actually improves our medical support positioning. We can consolidate the first aid stations here and here.” I adjust two red pins. “Better vehicle access for any serious incidents.”
Our hands brush as we both reach to mark the barrier placement. He doesn’t pull away immediately, and the brief contact sends warmth through me despite my exhaustion.
Grant looks impressed. “You’ve turned a potential disaster into a feature.”
Callum nods. “It’s not just a solution—it’s an opportunity to showcase integration. Natural abilities benefiting the whole community.”
As we finalize the details, I feel a rush of satisfaction. What started as a crisis has transformed into a showcase of supernatural cooperation.
The Lodge is silent except for the occasional creak of the old building settling. It’s nearly midnight the night before the festival, and Callum and I are hunched over the final equipment list, checking inventory for tomorrow’s ski-joring competition.
“Almost done,” I murmur, checking off the last safety barrier. “Just need to verify the medical supply count one more time.”
Callum leans closer, his arm brushing mine as he studies the list. The casual contact sends warmth spreading through my body despite my exhaustion. “Looks like we’re only short two thermal blankets. I can grab those from the emergency cache before setup.”
“Perfect.” I mark it on the checklist. “I think we’ve thought of everything.”
“You’re good at this,” Callum says, his voice low. “Finding problems before they happen.”
“So are you.” I smile, feeling the quiet intimacy of the moment. “We make a good team.”
His amber eyes hold mine, and the air between us changes. The checklist suddenly seems less important as awareness of his proximity floods my senses—the cedar and leather scent of him, the way his shoulders block out the rest of the room, the slight roughness of his breathing.
“We do,” he agrees, his voice deeper than before.
My gaze drops to his lips, then back to his eyes. The space between us seems charged with unspoken possibility. His hand rests beside mine on the table, our fingers nearly touching on the spread of papers.
“Lyanna,” he whispers, and there’s a question in how he says my name.
