The forest changed colour the moment the smaller sun kissed the tree line. One heartbeat it was all warm ochre and toasted pine; the next, a sheet of cyan light washed over the clearing, as if someone had swapped lenses on the universe. I felt the temperature nosedive through the soles of my bare feet.
"Right," I muttered, steam already ghosting from my lips, "apparently Little Bro does all the heating around here. Mental note: send complaint to Big Bro for poor coverage." The joke fizzled in the cold, but talking kept my teeth from chattering and reminded me I still had a voice.
Survival check: linen wrap, fern fragments in my hair, quartz shard in hand, zero plan for the Arctic cosplay the sky had just sprung on me. I scanned the treeline—shadows doubled, but my options didn't. Then I spotted salvation: a lightning‑scarred oak about twenty paces off, its trunk split open like a forgotten mailbox.
I trotted over, feet slapping mud that was fast turning to crunchy frost. The cavity yawned thigh‑high, charred edges smelling faintly of ozone and smoked almonds. I ducked inside and gave the interior a cautious poke with a stick. Dry, surprisingly roomy, and—most importantly—upright. If the tree had survived a lightning strike, it could babysit me for one night.
First order of business: insulation. I'd harvested a bundle of fern fronds earlier, thinking they might serve as a future pillow. Now they became emergency bedding. I piled them like a hedgehog building a dream home, then scraped loose bark and leaf litter out of the doorway, scoring a hinge notch with the quartz so two beefy branches could cross like a primitive gate. When they slotted together with a click, I almost applauded. Who needed a toolbox when you had anxiety and opposable thumbs?
Darkness pooled fast. Bronze‑white Big Sun still hovered above the western ridge, but without its little sibling the temperature kept plummeting. I curled inside my leafy nest and peeked through a gap in the barricade.
The sky looked wrong—beautiful, but wrong. Stars popped into existence where familiar constellations should have lounged. Orion? AWOL. Cassiopeia? Taking a personal day. In their place swirled a spear‑shaped cluster and something that resembled a fishhook tangled in glitter. I traced them in the dirt, baptising the first "Spear‑Fish" because naming things makes them less terrifying.
My stomach pinched, reminding me of the red berries I'd sampled at lunch. They'd staged a brief coup in my digestive tract before bowing out violently, so for now hunger could wait. Water, warmth, and not getting eaten outranked dinner.
As if cued by omniscient narrator, a howl unzipped the silence—low, metallic, and far too close. The hairs on my arms stood taller than the tree. A second voice answered, then a third, weaving a disharmony that rattled the oak walls. Great. Predators with a group chat.
"Listen, sparkly murder‑dogs," I whispered, pressing my back to the inner bark, "there's easier takeaway than a skinny teen in a tree coffin." Another howl—closer—suggested they disagreed.
I counted heartbeats to keep panic on a leash. One hundred and twenty got me through the first patrol of padded footfalls outside. Two hundred carried me past the snuffling at my fern door. At three hundred I considered fashioning a spear from sheer willpower.
Eventually the night settled into uneasy quiet. My breath puffed in steady clouds, drifting out through the barricade like smoke signals. I rubbed my hands together until the friction burned more than the cold. No spark came—yet. Tomorrow I'd change that.
"Dawn," I told the hollow, the stars, and whatever else was listening, "I build a fire or I freeze. Deal?" The forest didn't answer, but I felt the vow lodge behind my ribs like an ember waiting for tinder.
I burrowed deeper into the fronds, knuckles cracked and throbbing, and listened to the alien sky wheel overhead. Somewhere beyond the oak walls, predators prowled and stars danced in unfamiliar rhythms. Inside, I held onto the promise of daylight and the knowledge that everything I lacked—heat, food, company—could be earned with enough grit.
All I had to do was survive one absurdly cold night under twin suns.
Easy, right?