People still spoke about that winter like it were alive.
Old men lowered their voices when speaking of it.
Women touched their necklaces in prayer.
Children were warned not to ask too many questions.
The Decaying Winter.
The season the world nearly stopped breathing.
Snow fell for seven months without rest.
Rivers froze black.
Entire villages vanished beneath storms so cold that bodies remained standing long after death.
And worst of all…
the cold moved.
People swore it watched them.
Many who worked through that winter later developed something they called:
Winter's Mark.
A sickness that melted a person from the inside out.
No cure.
No pattern.
No mercy.
Some died years later.
Some collapsed mid-sentence while eating supper.
Others simply never woke up.
The winter had ended.
But it never truly left.
—
Near the outskirts of a forgotten logging town, beneath snowfall thick enough to bury a horse alive, a woman stumbled through the storm carrying firewood on aching shoulders.
Cassandra hated winter.
Not poetically.
Not philosophically.
Genuinely.
"Bloody bastard season…" she muttered through chattering teeth.
Her boots sank deep into the snow with every step.
The wind screamed loud enough to drown thought itself.
Then—
A sound.
Soft.
Weak.
Crying.
Cassandra stopped.
"…Eh?"
The sound came again.
A baby.
Her eyes widened.
"No… no ye're joking."
Nobody could survive out here.
Not in this cold.
Not tonight.
Yet the crying continued.
Cassandra dropped the firewood and forced herself forward through the storm, cursing under every breath.
"Stupid bloody— if this is some frost spirit nonsense I swear—"
She nearly tripped over the body first.
A woman.
Frozen solid.
Snow covered most of her face.
One arm still stretched weakly outward as if shielding something beneath her.
Cassandra's stomach dropped.
"…Gods."
Then the bundle moved.
Tiny.
Wrapped in torn cloth.
Still crying.
Still alive.
"…Impossible."
Hands trembling, Cassandra pulled the infant free—
—and recoiled instantly.
Warm.
The child was warm.
Not normal warmth.
Not fever.
He felt like firewood sitting beside a hearth.
The baby blinked up at her with strangely quiet eyes.
Not screaming anymore.
Just staring.
The storm howled violently around them.
But the snow touching the infant's skin melted instantly.
Cassandra stared at him for several long seconds.
"…What in the hell are ye?"
The child simply yawned.
—
The townsfolk called him cursed almost immediately.
Some called him blessed instead.
Most just avoided him.
Children born during the Decaying Winter rarely survived.
And the few that did were… wrong.
But the boy grew.
Healthy.
Quiet.
Warm.
Cassandra named him:
Phthisis.
Mostly because she lost an argument with a drunk historian.
"That is a horrible name for a child," the priest had said.
"Aye," Cassandra replied.
"But it sounds expensive."
—
Years passed.
The winter left scars on everyone.
Men developed coughing fits that stained handkerchiefs red.
Workers collapsed during harvests.
Hunters vanished into fevers overnight.
Winter's Mark.
The lingering gift of survival.
Yet strangely…
Phthisis never became sick.
Despite being fully human.
Which was becoming increasingly rare.
Most people crossbred now.
Beastfolk.
Stonebloods.
Ashborn.
Anything to ensure children inherited the Z chromosome.
Anything to survive.
Pure humans were dying out.
Weak.
Short-lived.
Obsolete.
Only around five thousand remained across the continent.
Cassandra was one of them.
So was Phthisis.
Yet somehow…
he survived better than anyone.
—
"Ye know what bothers me about ye?"
Cassandra sat near the fireplace wrapped in blankets while Phthisis prepared soup nearby.
He glanced over lazily.
"Mm?"
"Ye never get angry."
"I do."
"No ye don't."
"A little."
"Phthisis, I once watched a man punch ye in the face over a card game and ye apologized to HIM."
"Well he seemed upset."
Cassandra groaned loudly into her cup.
"Boy, one day I just wanna see ye yell once."
Phthisis smiled faintly.
"That'd be a bit rude, wouldn't it?"
"…Gods help me."
—
The day before his sixteenth birthday, snow fell again.
Not heavily.
Just enough to make the town uneasy.
Winter always made people uneasy now.
Phthisis sat atop the roof of Cassandra's home repairing loose wood panels while humming softly to himself.
Below, two hybrid workers struggled pulling lumber through the muddy roads.
One coughed violently into his sleeve.
Blood.
The other pretended not to notice.
Normal.
Everything was normal.
Phthisis exhaled quietly into the cold air.
Warm mist drifted from his lips.
Too warm.
Always too warm.
His hand absentmindedly moved toward the strange markings spreading slowly across his back beneath his clothes.
They'd appeared three months ago.
Dark.
Vein-like.
Almost resembling roots.
Or feathers.
He disliked touching them.
Deeply.
Something about them felt…
hungry.
"Boy!"
Phthisis glanced down.
Cassandra leaned out the doorway.
"Get down here and help me carry this before me spine files a formal complaint."
"Aye, comin'."
He hopped lightly from the roof.
Too lightly.
Humans weren't supposed to land that softly.
Cassandra noticed.
She always noticed.
But she never asked.
—
The next morning, Cassandra died making tea.
Just…
collapsed.
Cup shattered.
Body hit the floor.
Done.
Winter's Mark.
No dramatic last words.
No farewell speech.
No final wisdom.
One second alive.
The next gone.
Phthisis stared silently at her body for a very long time.
The kettle continued whistling softly in the background.
Neighbors arrived eventually.
Someone cried.
Someone prayed.
Someone touched his shoulder carefully.
"Lad… ye alright?"
Phthisis looked down at Cassandra's still hand.
Then smiled faintly.
"Aye."
The man looked disturbed by that answer.
—
The funeral was small.
Most pure humans couldn't afford large funerals anymore.
By sunset, the house felt emptier than death itself.
Phthisis sat alone at the kitchen table staring at two untouched bowls of soup.
The silence hurt more than he expected.
Which was inconvenient.
He disliked inconvenient feelings.
By midnight he finally stood.
Opened the front door.
And stepped into the cold night air.
That was when he saw it.
A flyer nailed crookedly onto the town board.
ROYAL ESCORT RECRUITMENT
Seeking capable fighters and escorts for the protection of His Highness, the Beastkin Prince of Varelion, during his coming-of-age pilgrimage.
High pay guaranteed.
Phthisis stared at it for several seconds.
Then sighed softly.
"…Well."
A small smile crossed his face.
"Suppose starvation sounds a bit bothersome."