January 6th.
Somber clouds clung against the sky. Heavy winds whipped through the streets, rattling the frost-gnawed windows.
The brutal cold was an unusual sight for Eyja, after all, the kingdom sat atop a volcano. Heat waves, cinderstorms, and ashensnow were commonplace.
These weather patterns were studied meticulously by the Pyroventus Commission. The people of Eyja had scheduled their days around them for centuries.
Such a phenomenon once dominated the Commission's archives, considered an ill omen even the most steadfast leaders of Eyja couldn't shake.
Yet within the last two decades, the insidious cold infiltrated the kingdom year after year. The people deemed it Gelidra.
At first, protests had erupted within the grand observatory of the Authority.
Smiths and forges lost their flames. Homes failed to trap warmth. Stoves ceased to cook meals. Even the kingdom's famed volcanic hot springs, a symbol of national pride, grew lukewarm.
But the Commission offered no explanation.
Over time, the unrest faded. Protests turned into complaints. Complaints quieted into acquiescence.
The people no longer saw Gelidra as a catastrophe but an inconvenience. The daily rituals that thrived for generations were put on hold before the people returned to them.
The panic two decades ago seemed to be nothing more than some overreaction. Gelidra's continued indifference to Eyja's sweltering heat made the populace indifferent in return.
Life continued without an explanation. None came. It seemed all but another mark on the Pyroventus' archives.
Yet the kingdom implied otherwise…
"... citizens of Eyja, the Volcanic Meteorological Authority brings you a new message… fear not Gelidra… considerably weaker and should not persist as long as previous years… return to your daily routine… tending the flames of our forges is tending the flames of life of Eyja…"
Wilson awoke to a shiver and a familiar voice.
The message echoed across the street, startling no one.
From the speaker crystal on the magma-bubbled streetlights, messages from the kingdom throughout the day were as commonplace as cinderstorms and ashensnow. They were another aspect of life, a part of the people's daily ritual even.
"... a professor at the Caldera Academy, a former director at the Pryoventus Commission, has recently informed us that Gelidra has ties to the kingdom of Sami… spoke with Volcarys Service on the plausibility… of a threat and a weapon of war…"
Wilson barely heard the rest. He knew the contents of the message already. He buried himself in his quilt.
The blaring speaker crystal and the ache behind his eyes made it impossible to go back to sleep.
"... the kingdom will continue its conscription program amidst the unknown threats… increase production… inform the Vulcretum of any Paranormal not registered… their gifts shall serve the people of Eyja…"
Woke up early to a migraine and a message. Salt to a wound. How annoying.
Wilson bit his lip. Some thoughts were better left unsaid.
The familiar shadows of his room were a small mercy compared to the darkness of a coffin.
Complaints about the kingdom—and its messengers—had a way of stopping one's breathing for good. Breathing might've been a luxury, but it was one he intended to keep.
Like today. It felt like he'd clawed his way back from the edge of death itself. But alive was alive.
Today was his birthday.
A surprise, yes, but certainly not special day or anything worth celebratory. Aside from Gelidra and his migraine, everything was shaping up to be a normal day.
Wilson stumbled his way downwards, half puzzled by the silence, half puzzled by how disorientated he was.
He took his words back.
The house remained quiet throughout most of his childhood. He couldn't recall it ever to this extent, save for a few special occasions annually.
The beginning and end of his new school year were two major ones. The house he'd return to after his graduation ceremonies always made him sick to the stomach.
The Paranoia. Certainly another major occasion. Oh, birthdays too, he recalled…
... but it wasn't this strange last year.
Wilson reached the bottom of the stairs. He froze at the sight of the living room.
The blood pooling away from his head cleared the dullness in his senses. A lump formed in his throat. His heart began to beat in disarray.
"Mooiur?"
There were only a few occasions when she allowed him to call her that.
Wilson never understood whether it happened by coincidence or by design. Those occasions always fell on these annual days of solemnity.
"I'm praying. Praying to your God Jokulmarkar," she answered, as if it wasn't obvious. She had fallen to her knees, forehead pressed to the ground, back arched with surrender.
Wilson noticed the dried tear marks that streaked down her face. He also noted the fact that this was the first he'd ever see her praying.
It's unusual to cry during a prayer… and Jokulmarkar? Of the kingdom of Sami?
"You didn't have a bad sleep, did you?"
Wilson paused. The same question was lingering on his mind.
"This week's been bad overall. Nightmares. Chills."
He chose his words carefully.
"Is… is there a problem? Mom?"
But she still trembled. Then visibly exhaled.
"Come. Pray with me."
Wilson's heart quickened even more. The lump in his throat now almost blocked his airway.
But he obeyed his mother's words. He slowly pressed his forehead to the floor. The cold surface of the stone beneath him ran a chill down his spine.
His gaze shifted to the pile of ice in the chimney mantle in front of them, then to the buckets of water arranged in a tight circle around their perimeter.
How had she gathered so much ice in a place like Eyja?
It was Gelidra itself that drove her to prepare this strange ritual...
"... Jokulmarkar," Wilson said, unsure of his words.
He whispered to his mother for guidance.
"How do I pray?"
"I don't know," she said.
The silence thickened in the air. His back stiffened.
"Jokulmarkar… I ask for your blessings," Wilson murmured after a long pause.
But the moment the words left his lips—as if to answer his prayers—a violent chill surged through his body. Icy talons gripped his bones.
Then a second wave followed. Sharp. Biting. Each pulse drove a thousand needles into his flesh and threatened to tear him apart from within.
Wilson collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, writhing under the searing cold.
"W-what's happening?! M-mom!"
His mother remained motionless, stiff as a statue, eyes fixed, staring at him—staring through him—an unreadable expression hung on her face. More frost swelled around them.
Numbness creeped from beneath the pain. The hazy chill seeped deep into his core, stole life from him, and almost blacked him out.
"Moouir...hjalp!"
Panic gripped hold of his mother. Her hands grasped at him, trying to hold him still. It only made it worse.
"No, not now! We were supposed to have another year!"
Wilson could see the terror in her eyes though his vision was blurring.
Then the next wave of frost hit him harder than before. The intensity suffocated his nerves once more. He had to let it go.
Her shouts became desperate begs.
"No, Wilson! Hold back! Don't release it!"
"I… I… can't."
His body betrayed him. He visibly convulsed. He released last and most powerful surge of cold.
The wave of energy erupted. Everything in its path froze solid in an instant. The windows, under the pressure inside and the hammering winds, cracked. The house groaned and shuddered.
Two more howls of the wind followed. Then everything suspended in an eerie calm.
Wilson, struggling to stand, blinked in confusion. His mother helped him to his feet.
"Mom… what… what just happened?" he managed.
But she didn't answer. She was shivering. Hyperventilating. Her wide eyes were fixed towards the front door.
Gelidra didn't make her tremble violently. Something else in her gaze did. Something far worse gripped her.
A clamor of footsteps outside confirmed it.
"Vulcretum. Paranormal activity detected. Entry with warrant."
Wilson's chest tightened. A wave of dread washed over him.
His mother's eyes shifted from the front door towards himself with an intensity no less than the last surge of cold. She shoved him with all her weight before he could react.
"Go! You have to go, now! The lockers at the hot springs. There's supplies. You must leave town—!"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"16 Eldgata Road, Ashenhold District. Madam Delise? Thirty-four years old. Caregiver. Please cooperate with the investigation."
Wilson's breaths caught in his throat. He heard the repeated thuds against the door, each heavy, violent, lacking mercy. They were nothing but a countdown.
"Repeat. The Vulcretum to investigate Paranormal activity under a warrant."
The pressure of his heart slamming into his chest threatened to crush him from within.
The following words of the intruders barely made sense as he regained his footing—but his mother had waited for him to do so.
Her nails dug through the fabric covering his shoulder.
"I __ love you," she said under her breath.
Wilson saw her tears freeze into stalactites.
W-what? No, it wasn't clear—
It was his last sight of her.
The final crashing blow to the door rang through the house.
Wilson stumbled into the backyard with the weight of his mother's last words and her final push behind him.