He thought, that just maybe, they were stronger now than they had ever been before. But just as he thought that might be true, he also knew that they were nowhere near strong enough. Was he wrong, to enforce caution? Would they never amount to anything if he always told them to hush, to slink in shadows and never let the sun gleam upon their rows of shiny, hungry teeth? If he let them go — would they become an avalanche, unstoppable, until they had dragged every other soul into motion and drowned Helovia in a thick layer of pristine snow.. or would they bleed out on the mountain slopes, useless, scattered and broken? He was no scryer, no clairvoyance ran in his cold blood. He could not know until it had come to pass, but was he growing so fearful that he'd never let it? Did old habits die so hard that he would never dare reveal his face? They were stronger now.. as they filtered out from the cave and into the oncoming blizzard Mauja closed his eyes and listened to the chip of hoof on rock, the clatter of warriors moving out and away.

Was he growing weak?

His breath rose like white smoke towards the cave roof, rising rapidly before his eyes once he opened them again. Even Snö was growing up — she, who had been conceived at roughly the same time as the Plague itself. Quietly he watched as she slipped out into the night beyond. He was not old himself, at least not in body, but was his mind growing frail, his heart afraid? No, he tried to tell himself. He knew that he would still die for every one of them, that he would never seek to abandon them to save his own life. His life was theirs, his body their shield, the lies his tongue spun the veil behind which they lurked.

The grind of teeth against teeth seemed too loud in the cave, and it was with a look of surprise he realized it'd come from him. The cave was almost empty, except for him and Psyche — perhaps no one would've noticed. He gave his head a shake, watching the last of their loyal warriors move out into the night, under Irma's keen eyes, though she was considering to fly into the maze of ice to avoid the strengthening winds and falling snow. She had no intention to freeze her feathers off where she sat.

And then, finally, they were alone, but instead of finding words he felt them stick in his throat as his heart lurched, uncertain. Why did the thought of being alone with her suddenly terrify him, when they had been alone so many times before? Drawing in a deep breath, he let his eyes travel the glistening wall, before he finally spoke into the unicorn-smelling darkness. "Thank you," he said, something rough in his voice, as he was not sure of what he was doing. ".. I guess." The amendment was even quieter, and with another shake of his heavy mane he slipped forward a step or two, raising his crown towards the ceiling. Suddenly it seemed so much colder. "I.." He remembered, even if he hadn't acknowledged it at the time, the faint glance she'd given him, the look, as if almost asking for his approval or praise, his input. With his head turned away from her, he frowned slightly. "You are doing well," he finally said, his voice revealing that he meant it. Despite what d'Artagnan had said of them needing him whether they knew it or not, he couldn't quite believe him; Psyche had brought them to glory after his downfall.