Inside the dim glow of the crackling stove, Caleb sat hunched on a crude wooden stool, a battered pot balanced precariously above the flame.
Chunks of boar meat simmered in the water—scentless, tasteless without any seasoning, but undeniably nourishing. He had boiled it first, unsure of what parasites or taint might exist in this brutal new world.
The steam coiled in the cold air like ghostly fingers, and for the first time in days, warmth spread not only through his limbs, but through his spirit.
He ate slowly, savoring the simple meal. The meat was tough and plain, but it was hot, and it filled his stomach. That alone made it the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted. For the briefest moment, he closed his eyes and simply breathed, letting the warmth wash over him like a balm against the endless frost.
Afterward, he sat back and peeled off his layers of tattered clothing, checking for wounds or frostbite. That's when he saw it—just below his left collarbone, near the center of his chest.
A mark.
It was faint, a vaguely flame-shaped imprint no larger than a palm. The center of it glowed a pale, icy blue, fringed by a thin border of angry red that pulsed softly, like a sleeping ember. Caleb touched it, half-expecting a sting or some strange sensation, but there was only a dull chill. It hadn't been there yesterday.
He stared at it for a while, mind running in circles. Was it from the kill? A system marking him? Some hidden effect of this world? There was no voice, no hint, no new message to explain it.
Whatever it was, it didn't seem urgent—for now. He pulled his shirt back down and sat beside the stove once more, watching the flames dance in silence.
Outside, the wind howled against the hut's walls. Inside, the hunter rested, full-bellied, warm, and slightly marked by something beyond his understanding.
The frost had accepted his blood. And now, it had left its touch.
End of 7th chapter.