It was a cold January 6th. Somber clouds clung against the orange sky as heavy winds forced frost-gnawed windows to crack.
The low temperatures were strange for the kingdom of Eyja; after all, it was built atop a volcano. Heat waves, cinderstorms, and ashensnow were commonplace. The Volcanic Meteorological Authority meticulously studied these weather patterns, and for centuries, the populace scheduled their days around them.
Such a phenomenon would dominate the Authority's archives in the past. It would be regarded an ill omen that even the most steadfast leaders of Eyja could not shake. Yet within the last two decades, the silent, insidious Cold infiltrated the kingdom time and time again.
At first, protests 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. The kingdom declared a state of emergency, but the Authority offered no explanation.
Over time, the unrest faded. Protests turned into complaints, and complaints became quiet acquiescence. The Cold was no longer seen as a catastrophe but an inconvenience: the daily rituals which thrived for generations would be put on hold, before the people of Eyja returned to them. There still was no explanation by the Authority; it seemed the panic nearly two decades ago was all but an overreaction. The Cold's continued indifference to Eyja's sweltering heat made the populace indifferent in return. It was a matter of adapting to a new aspect of life; there was no explanation needed. Yet the kingdom implored otherwise…
"... citizens of Eyja, the Volcanic Meteorological Authority brings you a new message… fear not the Cold… 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, not startling anyone. From the speaker crystal adorned on the magma-bubbled streetlights, messages from the kingdom throughout the day were as commonplace as cinderstorms and ashensnow.
"... a professor at the Caldera Academy of Sciences, a former director at the Volcanic Meteorological Authority, has recently informed us that the Cold has ties to the kingdom of Sami… speak with Foreign Intelligence on the plausibility… of a threat and a weapon of war…"
Wilson knew the contents of the next message already and barely heard the rest. He buried himself in his quilt, but the blaring message 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 committee 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. He didn't dare to say those words out loud, so he was thankful he awoke to the familiar sight of his room, and not the insides of a coffin. Complaints about the workings of the kingdom and its messenger often landed you in trouble, if you considered not breathing troublesome. He'd like to stay alive, even if it felt like he crawled back from the grips of death after last night's sleep.
Today was his birthday. A surprise, yes, but certainly not a special day or anything worth celebratory. Apart from the Cold, the message, his migraine, everything was shaping up to be a normal way. Was.
Wilson stumbled his way downwards, half puzzled by the silence, and half puzzled by how disorientated he was. He took his words back. The house was always quiet throughout his childhood, but 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 was a major one; the house he'd return to after his graduation ceremonies always made him sick to the stomach. The Paranoia was another major occasion. Birthdays too, he recalled.
'... but it wasn't this strange last year.'
Wilson reached the bottom of the stairs and immediately froze at the sight of the living room. The blood pooling away from his head helped clear the dullness in his senses. He didn't know why, but a lump formed in his throat. Then his heart began beating out of rhythm.
"Mooiur…?"
There were only a few occasions where she allowed him to call her that. He was never sure if it was by coincidence or not, but those occasions were always these annual days of solemnity.
"I'm praying. Praying to your God Jokulmarkar," she answered, as if it wasn't obvious. She was on her knees, forehead pressed to the ground, back arched with surrender.
Wilson noticed the dried tear marks streaking down her face. He also noted the fact that this was the first he'd ever see her praying.
'Unusual to cry during a prayer… and Jokulmarkar? Of the kingdom of Sami?'
"You didn't have a bad sleep, did you?"
Wilson paused. He was about to ask the same question.
"... I don't know. This week's been bad overall. Nightmares. Chills."
He was careful with his words, but she still trembled.
"Is… is there a problem? Mom?"
She visibly exhaled. "Come. Pray with me."
He obeyed his mother's words, but his heart's disarrayed rhythm quickened. The lump in his throat was almost blocking his airway.
'No, something's certainly wrong… but I can't let her worry any more.'
He slowly pressed his forehead to the floor, the cold surface of the stone beneath him sending 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 the Cold itself that drove her to prepare this strange ritual...'
"... Jokulmarkar," he whispered, unsure of the words. He turned to his mother, whispering quietly. "How do I pray?"
"I don't know."
Wilson's back stiffened. The uncomfortable silence thickened in the air.
"Jokulmarkar… I ask for your blessings," he 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, as if his very bones were being seized by ice. A second wave followed—sharp, biting, each sensation like a thousand needles driving into his flesh, each a searing pain that seemed to burn from within.
Wilson collapsed to the floor, gasping for breath, his body writhing under the searing cold.
"W-what's happening?! M-mom!"
But his mother remained motionless, stiff as a statue. Her eyes were fixed, staring at him—staring through him—with an unreadable expression, even as the cold swelled around them.
In the haze of pain, Wilson felt the creeping numbness beneath the burning frost—the insidious, numbing chill that stole the life from him, seeping deep into his core. The sensation was suffocating, like it was dragging him under, almost blacking him out.
"Mooiur… hjalp…."
"No, not now! We were supposed to have another year!" His mother's voice was frantic now, her hands grasping at him, trying to hold him still. It only made it worse.
Wilson's vision blurred, but he could see the terror in her eyes. The next wave of frost hit him harder than before—freezing his veins, suffocating him with its intensity.
"No, Will! Hold back! Don't release it!" Her frantic shouts turned to desperation.
"I… I… can't," he strangled out, barely audible.
His body betrayed him: releasing the last, most powerful surge of cold. The wave erupted, and everything in its path—every object, every inch of the room—was frozen solid in an instant. The windows cracked under the pressure; heavy winds outside hammering it until the glass shattered. The house groaned under the weight of the cold, as if the very walls themselves were about to break. Then, after two more howls of the wind, everything fell eerily still.
Wilson, struggling to stand, blinked in confusion as his mother helped him to his feet.
"Mom… what… what just happened?" he managed, his voice hoarse.
But she didn't answer. She was shivering, hyperventilating, her wide eyes fixed towards the front door. He realized her violent trembling wasn't from the cold—there was something else in her gaze, something far worse.
"Disciplinary Committee. 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 earlier.
Before he could react further, she pushed him firm with all her weight.
"Go! You have to go, now. The lockers at the hot springs. There's supplies. You must leave town—"
The sound of the front door being shattered split the air and her words. The voices outside were calm but authoritative—too calm. Wilson's breath caught in his throat as he heard the repeated thuds against the door, each one a countdown.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
"16 Eldgata, Ashenhold District. Madam Delise? Thirty-four years old, caregiver. Please cooperate with the investigation."
His heart slammed against his chest, the pressure threatening to crush him. The words of the intruders barely made sense as he regained his footing—and when he did, his mother was waiting for him.
"I __ love you, son—!" she whispered under her breath, her tears freezing into stalactites.
'W-what? No, it wasn't clear—'
The door cracked open just as the final crashing blow rang through the house.
With the weight of his mother's last words and final frantic push behind him, Wilson stumbled through the backdoor into the chilling night.