Chiyo wakes to coughing when the stars are still bright.

“Natsu?” Chiyo mumbles, rubs her sore eyes, squints against the blurry film that keeps the world unfocused. “Natsu, is that you?”

The hut is freezing—Chiyo wouldn’t be surprised if it’s colder inside than out. At least it keeps the snow away. Chiyo’s eyes follow the coughs. Natsu is huddled by the floor hearth, angry red rims under her eyes, lips white and cracked. There’s only embers left of the fire, dim and dying.

Like us.

Natsu holds out her trembling palm. It’s slicked with crimson. “Something’s wrong with me.”