Frost sealed the shed walls, dust motes swirling in shafts of freezing light. Kael flexed his fingers, bracing for the grind of frozen cartilage, but they snapped open—silent and oiled, blood surging through the joints.
He sat up and inhaled. The freezing draft washed over his throat, a cool, harmless stream. Beside him, the straw hissed as Tom curled into a tight ball, jerking. Sweat coated the boy's forehead; his lips were dry, cracked, and greyed at the edges. When Kael touched the skin, it burned—slick with sweat, yet tight and dry beneath his fingers.
Kael rose, shaking the straw from his tunic, and shouldered the door open. The cold struck him and failed to take hold.
He stepped into the courtyard. The Keep stirred around him; servants scuttled, heads tucked low against the gale. Kael cut through the wind to the mess line where a wooden crate held the rations: black bread frozen into bricks. Hobb, grease-stained and surly, guarded the food.
Kael snatched a heel, his hand closing around a second.
Thwack.
The ladle cracked against the wood, missing Kael's fingers by an inch.
"One ration." Hobb bared yellow teeth. "You new? One per head."
Kael's fingers locked around the second crust. "For Tom."
"He stands, he eats. Bring him here yourself." Hobb leaned over the crate, his hand trembling. The ladle shivered between them. Kael looked past the iron, crushing the second loaf in his fist, his gaze drilling into Hobb until the man's rage broke against the silence.
Kael pivoted away.
"Thief!" Hobb screeched, his voice cracking. "Greedy rat! I'll mark you!"
Kael strode away, ignoring the shouts. He crossed the yard and headed back to the shed.
He booted the shed door open; it landed with a dull thud. He walked up to Tom, tossed a chunk of black bread at his feet.
"Eat."
Tom only whimpered.
Kael left the shed and crossed the courtyard to where a drift had piled against the wall. Crouching, he scooped a double handful of snow and packed it hard between his palms before returning inside.
Tom's lips were cracked, split at the corners and grey with thirst. Kael hooked two fingers into the boy's jaw and pried his mouth open, ignoring the weak sound of protest. He shoved the snow in, but it melted too fast; water spilled down the boy's chin, soaking into the straw as Tom gagged, coughed, then swallowed.
Kael grabbed more snow and forced it in again. He kept his grip firm while the same rhythm repeated—gag, cough, swallow—until the boy's breathing steadied. The cracked lips darkened, the grey giving way to a faint wet sheen.
Kael waited until it held, then turned away to tear at his own ration, grinding the dense dough between his teeth.
Years of working together were paid for. Nothing more was owed.
The sudden clang of the bell ruptured the morning. Assembly time had come, and Kael went back to the yard.
Grey wool and bowed heads flooded the space, breath steaming in the cold air. At the front, the Steward stood on the dais while the Enforcer unspooled a braided leather whip.
"Quota review."
Guards dragged three men forward. Tunics fell, exposing pale, starved skin to the wind. They shook.
Crack.
The first man shrieked. Kael snapped a piece of crust and tucked it into his cheek, letting saliva soften the stone.
The Enforcer swung again. White turned to red, red to ruin. Sweat slicked the handle. As the screams died into a gargle of blood, the Enforcer kicked the meat into the snow. "Next."
The woodcutter trembled. The whip cracked—once, then twice. The Enforcer paused, glancing at the Steward, whose gaze drifted idly to the clouds. "Get back in line."
The woodcutter scrambled away, breath coming fast, a broken sound of relief tearing out of his throat.
The whip moved on...
Kael swallowed the bread.
"Dismissed," the order came from the dais.
As the crowd dispersed, Kael headed for the stables, the sharp reek of urine and wet hay hitting him. He seized a shovel.
"Head count!" The Patrol Leader strode down the aisle, slate in hand. He halted, scowling at the empty stall. "Short one. Where's the runt?"
Silence filled the barn. Four pairs of eyes shifted to Kael, who leaned on his shovel. "Fever."
"Useless," the officer spat, chalk scratching the slate. "If he dies, drag him to the pit. Stalls clean by noon."
The officer marched out. The stable hands shifted, glaring at the uncleaned stalls. Barr knuckled his pitchfork. "I refuse to do his share."
"I'll do it."
Barr blinked. "What?"
"I'll take his section. And mine."
The men exchanged glances, then drifted off. Kael stepped into the muck and the work began: heaving sodden slurry, forking dense, green hay. Kael cleared the first stall, pitched the straw, and paused. The ash wood shaft rose effortlessly, feather-light in his grip.
He moved on, the shovel becoming a blur of digging, lifting, and throwing. His breath stayed even. He finished his section and moved to Tom's. The warhorses stamped, their waste heavy with clay. Barr watched, but Kael kept the pace, hoisting a full bucket with one hand, his forearm holding steady as oak.
When the noon bell rang, he drove the shovel into the earth and straightened. His legs felt tired, but steady. Warmth filled his body, easy and comfortable.
Barr passed him, scanning Kael's face for sweat or ragged breath, and found only a faint sheen of sweat. Barr looked away, puzzled.
Kael wiped his hands and inspected his palms; they were rough, calloused, and steady.
The sun hung at high noon, a pale, unblinking eye, while shadows hid directly beneath the horses. Kael returned to the shed.
Sickness saturated the air, choking out the stable stink with the copper tang of fever. Tom sprawled in the straw, limbs loose, the twitching stopped. Kael crouched as a wet, heavy rattle shook the boy's chest.
He had heard that sound before. He peeled back an eyelid; the white had yellowed, the pupil staring wide, blind to the shaft of light cutting the wall. Frostbite blackened the fingertips.
Too much heat. Too long.
He had seen this before. Most didn't make it. The few who lived woke up without their memories—names gone, faces gone, unable to remember who they were.
Kael rose. He reached for the spear, then paused. His hand hovered over the boy.
Days worked side by side. Shared shifts. The routine of surviving together.
Another thought followed. He'd been left behind.
I have done enough.
His fingers twitched once, and he withdrew his hand.
He seized the spear from the corner, the ash wood feeling weightless against his callouses, and shouldered the door open, the rattling breath fading behind the closing wood.
Kael crossed the courtyard and went out through the side gate. The guard studied the grey horizon, eyes glazed, blind to the servant with the spear.
He reached the treeline and followed last night's trail. Snow had softened the tracks, but the landmarks remained—the split pine, the frozen stream. He picked up his pace and moved on.
The old oak loomed, the hollow buried beneath a smooth mound of snow.
Kael dropped to his knees and drove the spear tip into the crust, clawing away dirt and dead needles until silk showed through. He hauled out the heavy, frozen pouch and tore the knot open.
The Dagger—fine steel, cold enough to burn. The Ring—heavy gold. And the pouch of Silver.
Everything was there. Nothing missing. Nothing extra.
Kael gathered everything. He slipped the ring back into the pouch with the silver and cinched it tight. The dagger he kept separate, wrapped in cloth. He moved to another tree, dug a fresh hollow, and stowed the pouch and the blade side by side. He covered them carefully.
At the base of the trunk, he cut a short line with his skinning knife. A mark only he would recognize.
The gold was safe. The steel was hidden. Kael sheathed his knife and stayed where he was, standing alone in the quiet of the woods.
He looked at his hands. Yesterday, they had shaken with cold. Today, they had shoveled tons of wet muck without a tremor.
This was change.
He remembered the text from the kill. The reward.
Kael closed his eyes and focused on the heavy warmth moving through his veins. He spoke the word that had burned itself into his vision.
"Aether."
The world greyed. The wind fell away.
Text ignited in the air before him, hovering—silent, waiting.
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