The stench of decay hung like a physical weight in the frozen air. Within the oppressive dark sat a man, shackled by his wrists and ankles, his gaunt frame concealed beneath a veil of long, unkempt black hair that spilled over his shoulders. He appeared no older than his twenties, yet he sat in a silence so profound, his shallow breaths made him resemble a corpse more than a living soul.
Suddenly, a muffled roar erupted from the outside: "Quickly! Bring the smoke!"
A man reminiscent of the knights of old burst into the cell. He wore common garb, yet possessed a massive, towering build and a thick, unruly beard. He glared at the shackled prisoner with palpable tension and barked: "Bring it here, now!"
A guard rushed forward, carrying a chalice from which a thick, swirling vapor billowed. They began to funnel the smoke slowly into the prisoner's space. The guard covered his own mouth as the acrid, biting scent filled the stone chamber.
"Commander," one of the subordinates whispered, "why all these extreme precautions? He is but a scrawny man, already bound in Varanton Iron."
The Commander spun around and struck the guard with a force that sent the man reeling back, clutching his face in terror. The Commander's voice was a lethal hiss: "Never say that! You do not know him as I do. He is no ordinary human... He may look dead, but he is merely waiting. Planning." He narrowed his eyes and added, "The Leader's orders were absolute: treat him with the utmost caution."
When the smoke finally cleared, the prisoner drifted into unconsciousness. They tightened his restraints and dragged him like a hound to a room of absolute pitch. The air there reeked of old blood. A thin sliver of moonlight filtered through a tiny window, illuminating an array of horrific instruments: shears, whips, and pincers. The man was hoisted against the wall by heavy chains. His body was a map of scars and fresh welts, but the blood seeping from them was strange—a deep, bruised crimson that bordered on black.
The prisoner's eyes fluttered open slowly. He whispered in a faint voice, his gaze hollow and lifeless, hovering between existence and the void: "Another day, isn't it?"
The door creaked open, and the Commander entered alone, gripping a whip. Without a word, he began to strike with a brutality that filled the room with the sound of tearing flesh. Yet, the prisoner remained eerily silent, as if his soul had long ago grown accustomed to this agony.
The Commander gasped with exhaustion and muttered, "Truly... you are not human."
In that moment of peak pain, the prisoner's eyes fell upon a red stone glowing in the distance. He stared at it with piercing focus. A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his skull, accompanied by a strange shiver. His heart began to thud violently behind his ribs.
I... I remember, the prisoner thought.
"John... John, wake up! How long are you going to sleep? Morning is here!"
A ten-year-old boy with messy black hair sat up in his bed. His eyes searched for the source of the voice: his mother, Nora. She looked pale, her face etched with exhaustion.
"Why are you up?" John asked quickly, rushing to her side. "You're so pale, you need to rest." He guided her gently back to the bed and tucked the covers tightly around her.
John turned to the hearth. He went outside and brought in a bundle of wood that smelled of sulfur; red logs that burned with a deep crimson flame to combat the biting frost. As he threw a log in, a jagged splinter sank deep into his hand. But instead of flowing, the blood was frozen like crystal, and the room's frost immediately gathered over the wound. He clenched his fist tight.
He stepped outside into the blinding white of the village. Despite the bright sun, the cold was a tangible, physical weight. If I were near the fire, I would bleed, John thought, looking at his hand. But the cold... the cold stops the bleeding.
The village was a cluster of sturdy wooden houses set amidst an endless sea of snow. Red Stone Village, he reflected. His thoughts were cut short by a nearby blast; a man had struck a small red stone against the frozen earth, and it ignited with a crimson light before being hurled into the snow, where it exploded with a violent roar.
The man laughed, shouting, "It's a good thing our village is blessed with Red Stone, or we'd all be frozen corpses!"
John whispered to himself, "So that's why they call it that."
A voice barked nearby, "Hey, you little rat! Why are you late? Get to work!"
John spent his hours cleaning the stables. These were not stables for horses, but for "Ice Phantoms"—massive creatures resembling polar bears with long tails and lethal fangs, the only means of transport in this frozen hell.
When his shift ended, the supervisor handed him a small vial filled with a glowing blue liquid. John raced home and bolted the door. His mother's skin was as white as the snow outside. He gave her the blue liquid; as she drank it, a faint blue light emanated from her body and her breathing steadied.
"Thank you, my son," she whispered.
John prepared a meager bowl of meat porridge. Though his stomach ached with hunger, he pretended to eat so his mother would finish the rest. Later, as he lay exhausted on his bed, he stared at the ceiling.
I wish there was a way to get more medicine for her, he thought as sleep finally began to pull him under