The dawn over Driftmore wasn't gentle. It was a reluctant concession, bleeding weak, grey light over a city clenched tight against the Arctic cold. Snow fell in thick, silent flakes, muffling the world, piling onto slate roofs already bowed under the weight of winter, and frosting the intricate network of steam pipes that snaked across buildings like frozen metallic veins. Driftmore, the northernmost sentinel of the Lockstar Kingdom, breathed frost. Workers, bundled in layers of thick wool and fur, chipped ice from cobblestones with dull thunks, their breath pluming like miniature geysers. Guards in heavy, rune-inscribed plate armor stamped their feet, the metal clanking dully, wisps of steam escaping joints warmed by rudimentary heat-runes powered by their Abdomen Cores. One guard casually melted a patch of ice blocking a merchant's stall with a touch of his Right Palm Core, the water hissing briefly before refreezing at the edges. Magic, here, was as much a tool of survival as a hammer or a shovel.
Inside the "Frosted Delight," the air was thick with the scent of yeast, burnt sugar, and the underlying tang of iron from the aging oven. Frost etched intricate patterns on the inside of the single, grimy window. Alfred Lotus, his broad frame made bulkier by layers of patched sweaters, moved with the careful weariness of a man who'd lifted too many sacks of flour for too many years. His grey hair was tousled, his kind face creased with lines deepened by cold and care. He wiped flour-dusted hands on his apron, eyeing his grandson.
Ariel Lotus, perched precariously on a stool meant for customers, wasn't helping. He was sketching. Not pastries, but knights. Bold figures wielding swords wreathed in frost-fire, shields deflecting bolts of pure mana. His silver hair, streaked with strands of deepest black like tarnished moonlight, fell into intense emerald green eyes fixed on the parchment. His lean frame was coiled with restless energy even in stillness. Half-eaten sausage links lay forgotten on a plate beside him.
"Dreaming again, lad?" Alfred's voice was a low rumble, warm but edged with exhaustion. He nudged a bucket of grey, slushy water towards Ariel with a worn boot. "Dreams don't scrub floors. Or wash dishes. Especially not before the breakfast rush."
Ariel flinched, his charcoal stick scratching across the knight's shield. "Grandfather, Ian and I were going to watch the knights train! Captain Lithuanian drills them early! They use their cores, Grandfather! Real magic!" His voice held the breathless awe of a twelve-year-old for whom magic was still a dazzling storybook promise, not the mundane reality of ice-melting guards. A fleeting image, blurred and painful – a woman with silver hair like his, a man with warm, calloused hands – brushed against his mind, gone before he could grasp it, leaving only a familiar, hollow ache. Plague. Five years old. Faces lost to time.
Alfred sighed, the sound heavy as the snow outside. He picked up a heavy sack of rye flour, his arms straining visibly without the reinforcing power of mana cores. "Magic costs, Ariel. Costs time, costs learning, costs... living. It ain't free, like the air. It needs fuel." He hefted the sack onto the counter with a grunt. "What we need is clean floors. And dishes. And you earning your keep, not just eating it." He gestured pointedly at the sausage plate. Ariel's nose wrinkled slightly at the memory of the sickly-sweet fruit tarts Alfred sometimes tried to tempt him with. Sweet things felt... wrong. Like medicine. Like doctors. Like the vague, unpleasant memories associated with the plague years.
"It's not fair!" Ariel burst out, frustration cracking his voice. "Ian's dad lets him watch! Why do I always have to be stuck here, smelling burnt pastry and washing greasy pans?" The words hung in the flour-dusted air, sharper than intended. He saw the weary hurt flicker in Alfred's eyes, the slight slump in his grandfather's shoulders. Guilt warred with resentment. "I... I just want to see."
Alfred turned away, busying himself with arranging cold, slightly stale-looking scones in the display case. "Life ain't fair, boy," he said, his voice quieter now, thick with an emotion Ariel couldn't quite name. "It's work. It's responsibility. It's putting one foot in front of the other, even when it's cold. Especially when it's cold. Now, the floor." He didn't look back.
Tears pricked Ariel's eyes, hot against the pervasive chill. Without a word, he slid off the stool. He didn't grab the mop. He grabbed his worn woolen cloak and mittens. Ignoring Alfred's startled "Ariel!", he yanked open the shop door. A blast of frigid air and swirling snow hit him like a physical blow. He plunged into the white world, the rusty bell jangling a furious protest behind him.
Roger Lithuanian felt the cold like an old enemy. It seeped through his high-quality mercenary leathers, past the thick fur lining, seeking the bone. He stood in the shadow of Driftmore's squat, granite barracks, watching his older brother, Albert, put the city guard through their paces in the walled training yard. Steam rose in thick clouds from the men as they moved, their Leg Cores enhancing their footwork, their Abdomen Cores providing the stamina for drills in this frozen hellscape. Albert, a solid oak of a man with the same dark brown eyes as Roger but infinitely more trustworthy, barked orders, his voice carrying easily over the crunch of snow and the rhythmic clang of practice swords. Albert's Right Palm Core glowed faintly as he demonstrated a precise disarming maneuver, the practice blade snapping neatly from a recruit's grip.
Roger's own Abdomen Core hummed faintly, a low, warm thrum fighting the chill, while his Right Leg Core pulsed subtly, keeping his stance firm on the icy ground. His Left Palm Core felt dormant, a coiled potential reserved for less... lawful pursuits. He traced the thick, jagged scar that ran from his right cheekbone down to his jawline – a souvenir from a "kind-hearted" merchant in Estia who'd promised safe passage through the Ash Forests, then sold their location to bandits for a handful of silver. The memory was cold, sharper than the Driftmore air: the betrayal in the man's eyes as Roger's dagger found his throat, the false promises dying on his lips. Optimists. Kind hearts. They were luxuries fools indulged in, weaknesses that got good men killed. He trusted loyalty, coin, and the strength of his own cores. That was all.
A flicker of movement caught his sharp eyes. Two small shapes were pressed against a crack in the weathered timber fence surrounding the yard. Peering in. Kids. One had a shock of unruly brown hair. The other… Silver and black hair? Unusual.
Roger moved like shadow given purpose. Snow crunched softly under his boots, but he made no other sound. In three long strides, he was behind them. He loomed, a sudden, imposing darkness against the snow.
"Enjoying the show, rats?" His voice was a low rasp, colder than the wind.
The boys yelped, spinning around, eyes wide with terror. The brown-haired one – Ian, Roger vaguely recalled Albert mentioning the blacksmith's boy – stumbled back. The other one, the silver-haired half-breed, met Roger's gaze. Fear was there, yes, but also a spark of defiance, a glint of that cursed awe in his emerald eyes. It was the look people got when they saw magic, saw strength, before they learned its true, brutal cost.
"W-we weren't doing nothing wrong!" the half-breed stammered, puffing out his chest in a pathetic attempt at bravery. "Just watching the knights train! Sir!"
"Spying," Roger corrected, his voice flat. He saw the boy flinch. "On military exercises. That carries a penalty. Flogging. Maybe time chained to the wall-watch. Freezing builds character, they say." He let the threat hang, watching the color drain from both small faces, the defiance in the silver-haired boy's eyes flickering. "Scram. Before I decide you need an early lesson in consequences."
They didn't need telling twice. They scrambled away, slipping and stumbling in the snow, vanishing around a corner like startled rabbits. Roger watched them go, a grim satisfaction settling in his gut. Naive fools. The world will crush that spark soon enough.
He turned back towards the training yard, catching Albert's eye. His brother gave a slight, weary nod of acknowledgement. Roger pushed open the heavy gate, the warmth of the yard hitting him, smelling of sweat, hot metal, and packed snow.
"Roger," Albert greeted, clapping him on the shoulder with a gauntleted hand. "Didn't expect you back from the Luxious job so soon. Trouble?"
"Contract ended early. Duke Valerius got what he paid for." Roger shrugged, his gaze scanning the disciplined ranks. "Smooth extraction. Pay was good." He paused, remembering the Duke's lavish palace, warm as a summer's day despite the season, the decadence clinging to the air like perfume. And the Duke's peculiar after-dinner request, whispered over glasses of chilled, sparkling wine that tasted like liquid silver. "My dear Roger... a small, unrelated matter. My wife... she desires a unique companion. Something exotic. A child, specifically. Uncommon heritage. Elven blood, perhaps? Untouched by core formation. Price is no object. Discretion, of course, is paramount."
Roger had dismissed it at the time. Distasteful, even for him. But the Duke's gold was heavy, and Roger's own funds, after paying his crew and repairing gear, were lighter than preferred. The image of the silver-haired boy's defiant, awestruck eyes flashed in his mind. Half-elf. No cores. Blended right in, in this frozen backwater. An investment. A transaction. No different than smuggling artifacts or eliminating targets. The Duke's wife would probably pamper the brat rotten. Better than scrubbing floors in a failing bakery.
"Everything alright?" Albert asked, concern etching his honest face.
"Fine," Roger grunted, forcing his thoughts away from the boy. "Just the cold. And the smell of virtue in the morning." He gestured vaguely at the earnest recruits. "Drives me mad."
Albert chuckled, a warm sound. "Still the cynic. Come inside. Warm up. Tell me about the job. Avoided the Merrow patrols this time, I hope?"
Roger followed his brother towards the barracks door, the image of the half-elf boy – Ariel, Albert had called him later, Alfred Lotus's grandson – settling in his mind like a snowflake on stone. Not gone. Just waiting. The Duke's gold would buy a lot of warmth. More than this frozen city ever could. And Ariel Lotus? He'd be a pampered pet in a gilded cage. A fair trade. Roger's hand unconsciously brushed his scar. Kindness got you killed. Pragmatism kept you alive. And rich.
The cold bit deeper as true dawn approached, the pre-dawn light a thin, miserable grey. Ariel shivered, not just from the temperature, but from the lingering chill of Roger Lithuanian's presence. He'd crept back to the crack in the fence after helping Ian stack firewood at the smithy, the knights' training a potent lure overriding his guilt about running from Grandfather. He needed to see the magic, the real strength.
Through the crack, the scene was mesmerizing. Steam rose in thick plumes from the knights as they practiced formations. One knight, his Left Leg Core flaring briefly, executed a leap that defied gravity, clearing a practice barricade with ease, landing with a crunch of snow. Another deflected a training bolt of compressed mana – a flickering blue sphere – with his shield, the impact causing his Abdomen Core to glow steadily as he absorbed the force. Ariel pressed closer, his breath fogging the wood. He imagined himself there, a shimmering blade in hand, a Chest Core blazing with power, defending Driftmore from... from what? Frost giants? Ice drakes? His imagination ran wild.
"See?" Ian whispered beside him, his own breath a white cloud. "Sergeant Mallory's got four cores! Albert told my dad. Abdomen, both Legs, and a Palm! He could probably punch through the city wall!"
"One day," Ariel breathed, emerald eyes wide, "that'll be us. Knights. With cores. Protecting everyone." The image was bright, warm, banishing the memory of the cold shop, the greasy water, his grandfather's tired eyes. He pushed the guilt down. Grandfather didn't understand. How could he, without a core? Magic wasn't just work; it was glory.
Later, trudging home through the silent, snow-choked streets, the weight of his skipped chores settled back on Ariel's shoulders. The warm glow of the bakery window seemed accusing. He braced himself for Grandfather's disappointment, maybe even anger. He pushed the door open, the bell jangling softly this time.
Alfred was behind the counter, not scrubbing, but counting coins from the meager morning trade. Copper pennies, mostly, with a few thin silver bits. He looked up, his face weary but lacking the sharp anger Ariel feared. There was only deep concern, etched deeper than the flour lines.
"Ariel." Alfred's voice was quiet. "You scared me, lad. Running off like that. In this cold." He pushed the coins aside. "Sit. Warm yourself by the oven."
Relief warred with renewed guilt. Ariel shuffled over, shedding his snow-caked cloak. The warmth from the ancient oven was blissful. He sat on the stool, avoiding Alfred's gaze.
"You need to understand, boy," Alfred began, his voice low and serious. He scooped up a handful of coins. "This world runs on more than dreams. It runs on this." He held up a dull copper coin. "See this? A copper penny. That buys a loaf of yesterday's bread. Or pays for the coal to keep this oven lit for an hour." He placed it down, picked up a slightly larger, brighter coin. "Silver bit. Worth a hundred coppers. That buys a sack of flour. Or pays the tinker to fix the oven pipe." Finally, he held up a single, gleaming gold coin Ariel had only ever seen in merchants' hands – heavy, bright, impossibly valuable. "Gold crown. Ten thousand coppers, Ariel. Ten thousand. That... that could buy this shop. Or pay a master Artificer to carve a simple rune. Or feed a family for years." He placed the coins carefully back on the counter. "Magic... cores... they're tied to this, lad. Deeply. Learning? Takes time you could be earning coppers. Forming a core? Takes resources – tutors, elixirs, quiet places – that cost silver. Gold. The Duke in Luxious? The Knights Captain? They swim in gold. We..." he gestured around the small, chilly shop, "...we count coppers. Dreaming costs nothing. Chasing dreams... that costs more than we have."
Ariel stared at the coins, the cold reality of Alfred's words seeping in deeper than the winter chill. The bright image of the knight, the blazing core, seemed to flicker and dim against the dull gleam of copper. He thought of Roger Lithuanian's cold eyes, the scar, the sense of dangerous power. What had that cost? He looked at Alfred's chapped hands, the tired slope of his shoulders. The guilt crystallized, cold and hard in his stomach. "I'm sorry, Grandfather," he whispered, the words barely audible over the crackle of the fire. "I'll... I'll scrub the floor now."
Alfred nodded, a sad smile touching his lips. "Good lad. After breakfast. You need warmth inside you first." He turned back to the counter, leaving Ariel staring at the coins – symbols of a world far harder, far colder, and far more expensive than his dreams had ever acknowledged.
The deepest cold came just before dawn. The city was a monochrome sculpture, silent but for the mournful wind whistling through steam vents and the distant, rhythmic clang of the night-watch bell. Ariel moved like a ghost through the familiar streets. He hadn't been able to sleep after the talk about the coins, the weight of reality pressing down. He needed to see the knights again. To recapture that spark of defiance, that belief in magic and might. He told himself he'd just watch for a moment, then sneak back before Grandfather woke. He crept towards the familiar crack in the training ground fence.
He never reached it.
A shadow detached itself from the deeper gloom of an alley mouth, moving with terrifying silence and speed. A hand, hard as iron and radiating unnatural warmth from a Left Palm Core, clamped over Ariel's mouth, stifling his gasp. Another arm, impossibly strong, reinforced by the power of a Right Leg Core, locked around his chest, pinning his arms. He was lifted clean off the ground as if he weighed nothing.
Panic, pure and icy, flooded Ariel's veins. He kicked, twisted, but it was like struggling against stone. He bit down on the gloved hand, tasting leather and something coppery, but the grip only tightened, bruisingly firm. He saw a glimpse – dark eyes, devoid of warmth, the jagged scar stark in the faint starlight. Roger Lithuanian.
"Quiet, boy," Roger hissed, his breath warm and sour against Ariel's ear. "Struggle, and I break your arm. Understand?"
Ariel froze, terror locking his limbs. He was carried swiftly, silently, deeper into the alley, away from the feeble light of the distant street lamp. Roger moved with the lethal efficiency of a predator, his Leg Core making his steps unnaturally swift and sure on the icy ground, his Palm Core ensuring Ariel couldn't make a sound beyond muffled whimpers.
At the alley's end, a covered cargo sled waited, hitched to two large, shaggy frost-mules, their breath pluming in the cold. Roger dumped Ariel unceremoniously into the back, amidst sacks of grain and crates. Before Ariel could scramble up, Roger was on him, pulling coarse sacking over his head, binding his wrists and ankles with brutal efficiency. The world plunged into scratchy, suffocating darkness filled with the smell of burlap and grain dust.
"Grandfather...!" Ariel tried to scream, but the sacking muffled it into a pathetic sob. Fear, colder than the Driftmore snow, seized him. The coins. The Duke. Roger's words to his brother. Exotic. Elven blood. Untouched by cores. Discretion. It crashed over him – not a nightmare, but a transaction. He was merchandise.
He heard Roger move to the front of the sled, the creak of leather as he climbed aboard. A low command, the jingle of harnesses, and the sled lurched forward, the muffled sound of the mules' hooves on packed snow the only rhythm in Ariel's terrifying new world.
Inside the sack, tears welled in Ariel's emerald eyes, hot and futile against the scratchy burlap and the encroaching, absolute cold. The bright dream of knights and magic was gone, extinguished as thoroughly as a candle in a blizzard. Only the terrifying darkness remained, carrying him away from the rusty bell of the Frosted Delight, away from the warm oven, away from Alfred's weary, caring eyes. Carried towards an unknown fate, bought and paid for with gold crowns.
Roger flicked the reins, urging the frost-mules into a steady trot towards the southern gate. The guards, half-frozen and bored, waved him through with barely a glance at his forged merchant papers. The Duke's advance payment – a heavy pouch of gold crowns – rested securely against his chest, a comforting, solid warmth. Ariel's muffled sobs from the back were faint, almost lost in the wind. Irrelevant noise.
He touched the scar on his cheek, the familiar ridge of ruined flesh. Sentiment was a luxury. Kindness was a trap. Alfred Lotus was a kind man. Look where it got him – a failing shop and a grandson snatched from his bed. Albert was loyal. Look where that got him – freezing his ass off guarding a city of paupers. Roger protected what was his: his life, his strength, his brother (because Albert was useful, and family, however misguided), and now, his substantial profit.
The sled moved smoothly onto the snow-covered trade road leading south, away from the frozen hell of Driftmore, towards the warmer, wealthier shores of the Luxious Empire. Towards the Duke's gold. The boy would live a life of luxury, far better than scraping by in that rusty pastry tomb. Roger had done him a favor, really. Taken him from copper pennies to gold crowns. Pragmatism. Survival. That was the only law worth following in a world as cold as Stringast. He didn't look back.