Push weights through a field with one law — and when you are stuck, freeze where you stand and let your next self use what you left behind.
A comet circles the moon, and you own a single decision: which way around. Gather the shy light. Refuse the shards.
The sky hums its stars in order, one more each round. Hum them back, and watch the constellation draw itself from your remembering.
A needle sweeps the ring; a warm arc waits somewhere on it. Tap only while the light holds you. The arc shrinks. The needle hurries.
Set stone on stone, quietly, toward the moon. Whatever overhangs is lost; whatever lands true is remembered.
Cross a frozen lake one step at a time. Every safe cell whispers how many weak ones surround it. A safe road always exists — if you can read the whispers.
A wisp carries the last ember through a cave of ice pillars. Tap to rise, let go to sink, and touch nothing at all.
The old river-serpent eats the stars that fall into the water, and grows one scale for each. The river is narrow, and the serpent is long.
An old story says a hare once leapt to the moon. These are the ledges it used — still floating, still waiting for the next brave fool.
A fox must cross seven lanes of rushing thaw-wind, where sleds and gusts never stop to look. The far bank is worth ten; every brave row is worth one.
The dark comes down as a wall of black ice, row after row. You hold one paddle-shaped prayer and one rebounding mote of light. Hold the line.
Once a year the sky gives back the sparks of every fire that ever rose into it. Catch them in the last brazier — but the sky sends ash down too.
A paper bird flies the storm home along three thin corridors of calm. The gale throws branches; sometimes, kindly, it drops a feather.
The night river carries one small ferry and everything it has ever been trusted with. Steer between the rocks; gather the lantern-souls that drift.
Deep under the snow, the heart of winter beats in slow rings of light. Meet each pulse at the old ring, or the beat is lost — and you have three to lose.
The scribe of the Long Night is relearning the protective sigils, one flash at a time. See the lit runes; when they fade, touch them all from memory.
Nine candles keep the shrine of small hours. They gutter without warning, and the dark sends its own flame among them — beautiful, black, and not to be touched.
Sky-lanterns strain at their tethers, ready to rise and become stars. Your blade frees them — but among the cords hangs one that was never meant to be cut.
To save the village’s memories from the frost, the elders split each one in half and hid them among stones. Mend them two at a time, faster than the hourglass.
Frost, folded once, becomes ice. Folded again — stone, silver, starlight. The board is four by four, and the cold keeps arriving.