Izuku Midoriya pulled his wool cloak tighter, breath fogging in tight, quick puffs.

He’d been walking for hours. The ram—old Bari, with his crooked horn and stubborn streak—had broken through the paddock fence sometime before dawn. The chief would have his hide if he came back without him.

Izuku stepped carefully, placing each foot where the snow seemed firmest. The village elders had taught him that much: winter woods didn't forgive carelessness.

Then the wind shifted.

Something warm. Something not forest.

He stopped. Lifted his head. Breathed in again.