Apparently, Amanita was so cold, even her magic was shivering. The haze from her horn looked unstable, wiggling in ways Bitterroot had never seen hornlight do. After a few seconds, flame sprang up from the gathered sticks and branches. Amanita rubbed her shaking hooves together and held them out to the fire. Once her hooves were warm enough, she withdrew a knife from her bags. Still shaking, with a small scream, she jammed it into her wound and dug. Repeatedly. Every time Amanita pulled the knife back out, Bitterroot could barely make out her flicking a bloody… something… into the snow. The remains of the bullet Gale had shot her with? After a few digs, Amanita poked the knife into the wound, cringing. But whatever she felt, she was satisfied, because the laid the knife across the fire’s logs.