Elias had never liked the sound of boiling water.
Not even before. Not in kitchens, not in field tents, not in hospitals strung together in canvas and wire. It was too loud, too unstable, always promising more than it delivered.
Now, with Zubair's heat blooming in a controlled whisper against the thick floor of ice, the sound came back like a ghost: snap, hiss, tiny bubbles forming under a skin that wasn't meant to give.
He crouched close, gloves stripped from his fingers despite the burn of cold in the air. He needed touch for this. The kit was small — metal cup, folded paper filters, a case of test strips that had lived too long in the bottom of his pack. Not ideal. Not military issue anymore. But enough.
"Slow," he told Zubair, not lifting his head.
Zubair grunted and adjusted. Heat pulled back a notch. The ice stopped groaning and simply wept. Drops formed, shivered, fell into the waiting cup.
