The stench of rot hung heavily in the freezing air. Within the encroaching darkness sat a man, shackled by both hands and feet. His frail body was partially hidden beneath long, unkempt black hair that cascaded over his shoulders. He didn't look a day over twenty, yet he sat in a silence so profound that his shallow breaths made him resemble a corpse.
Suddenly, a muffled roar erupted from outside: "Quickly! Bring the smoke!"
A man resembling the knights of old burst into the cell. He wore common clothes but possessed a massive, towering build and a thick, dense beard. He glared at the shackled man with visible tension and barked: "Bring it here, now!"
A guard rushed forward, carrying a chalice from which a thick, swirling vapor billowed. They began slowly channeling the smoke into the prisoner's space. The guard covered his mouth as the pungent, acrid scent filled the room.
One of the subordinates whispered: "Commander, why all these extreme precautions? He is just a frail man, and he is already bound by Varanton iron."
The Commander turned and struck the guard with such force that the man staggered back, clutching his face in terror. The Commander hissed: "Never say that! You do not know him as I do. He is not a normal 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 highest degree of caution."
When the smoke finally cleared, the prisoner drifted into unconsciousness. They tightened his restraints and dragged him like a dog to a room of absolute pitch-blackness. The chamber reeked of blood. A thin sliver of moonlight filtered through a tiny window, illuminating a terrifying array of tools: shears, whips, and pliers. The man was hoisted onto the wall by heavy chains. His body was a map of scars and fresh wounds, but the blood seeping from them was strange—a deep crimson, bordering on black.
The prisoner's eyes flickered and opened slowly. His gaze was devoid of life, hovering between existence and nothingness, as he whispered in a faint voice: "Another day, isn't it?"
The door creaked open, and the Commander entered alone, clutching a whip. Without a single 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 panted from exhaustion and muttered: "Truly... you are not human."
In that moment of pain, the prisoner's eyes fell upon a red stone glowing in the distance. He stared at it with intense focus. A sharp, stabbing pain pierced his skull, accompanied by a strange shiver. His heart began to throb violently behind his ribs.
The prisoner thought: "I... I remember."
"Jon... Jon, 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 sought the source of the voice: his mother, Nora. She looked pale and exhausted.
"Why did you get up?" Jon asked quickly, rushing to her side. "You are so pale, you need to rest." He guided her gently back to bed and tucked the blanket around her.
Jon turned to the stove. He went outside and brought in a bundle of wood that smelled of sulfur; red logs that burned with a deep crimson flame to fight the biting cold. As he was tossing a log, a jagged splinter sank deep into his hand. But instead of flowing, the blood was frozen like crystal, and the frost of the room immediately gathered over the wound. He clenched his fist tightly.
He stepped outside into the stark whiteness of the village. Despite the bright sun, the cold was a tangible, physical weight. Jon thought as he looked at his hand: "If I were near the fire, I would have bled... but the cold... the cold stops the bleeding."
The village was a cluster of sturdy wooden houses amidst an endless sea of snow. He mused: "The Red Stone Village." His train of thought was broken by a nearby explosion; a man had struck a small red stone against the frozen ground, and it flared with crimson light before being tossed into the snow, where it exploded with a violent roar.
The man laughed, saying: "It's a good thing our village is blessed with Red Stone, otherwise we would all be frozen corpses."
Jon whispered to himself: "So that's why they call it that."
A voice barked: "Hey, you little rat! Why are you late? Get to work!"
Jon spent his hours cleaning the stables. They weren't 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 bottle filled with a glowing blue liquid. Jon hurried home and slammed the door shut. 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.
She whispered: "Thank you, my son."
Jon 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 on his bed exhausted, he stared at the ceiling.
He thought as sleep began to overtake him: "I wish there was a way to get more medicine for her."