May 23, 1072: 8:00 PM
"Eight o'clock," he muttered, looking toward the Western District. "Time to see if my luck holds out for a bed."
...
The walk through the city felt longer than it was. After months of sleeping on jagged stone and listening to the predatory whistles of the Great Mountain's winds, the rhythmic clack of Lucian's boots on cobblestones felt alien. Eventually, the four-story silhouette of Angel's Inn loomed ahead, its windows glowing with a soft, amber invitation that seemed to push back the encroaching night.
Inside, the air smelled of roasted malt and cedar. The common room was mostly empty, save for a few hushed conversations in the corner. Lucian approached the counter where a man in his twenties, clean-shaven and wearing a crisp tunic, looked up with a practiced, welcoming grin.
"Greetings! I'm Cseasey. Welcome to the Angel," the man said, his voice bright enough to cut through Lucian's fatigue. "How can I help a traveler such as yourself this evening?"
"A room," Lucian said, his voice a bit raspy from disuse. "What are your rates?"
"Two silver a night gets you a comfortable bed, fresh linens, and a view of the district," Cseasey replied.
Lucian reached into his heavy leather pouch. The weight of the gold felt strange—a physical manifestation of the monsters he had slain. "And if I pay a full gold coin?"
Cseasey's eyes widened, his mental math clicking into gear. "A gold? Well, at a hundred silver to the gold... that would cover you for six weeks, plus a few days of grace. Are you planning a long stay?"
Lucian didn't hesitate. He pulled two heavy gold coins from the pouch and let them thud onto the polished wood. "I'll take two months. And I'd like a meal delivered to my room. What's the best you have?"
Cseasey beamed, his hands moving quickly to secure the payment. "The House Special, without a doubt! It's a full-course spread: a warm appetizer, garden greens, our signature garlic-salted chicken, roasted roots, a chilled pudding, and a drink. Fifteen silver, and I'll ensure it's the chef's best work."
"I'll take it. And give me your finest drink to wash it down," Lucian added, sliding a third gold coin across. "Keep the change. I just want a quiet room."
"Room 30, third floor," Cseasey said, handing over a heavy brass key with a flourish. "The food will be at your door in twenty minutes. Enjoy the peace, Mr. Lucian!"
The stairs groaned softly under Lucian's weight as he climbed. Room 30 was a long, rectangular space that smelled faintly of lavender and old paper. Three square windows looked out over the city; he walked to each one, drawing the heavy curtains tight to seal himself in.
He dropped his travel-stained coat onto a rack, kicked off his boots, and collapsed onto the bed. The mattress was soft—too soft. It felt as though it were trying to swallow him. He stared up at the dark wooden beams of the ceiling, the silence of the room ringing in his ears.
Living alone... it's what I wanted, he thought, his chest tightening. No masters, no monsters, no one to watch my every breath. But as he lay there, the loneliness felt sharper than any blade. It was his first day back in the world of men, and he already felt like an intruder. He was sixteen, yet he felt centuries older than anyone downstairs.
A sharp, rhythmic knocking broke his spiral. "Mister? Your dinner has arrived!"
Lucian opened the door to find a young girl, perhaps no more than ten, holding a tray that looked far too heavy for her. He took it from her with a quiet "Thank you," and she gave him a shy, gap-toothed smile before disappearing into the hall.
He set the tray on the circular table and let the aroma hit him. He hadn't realized how much he was shaking until he saw the steam rising from the clear vegetable soup. He ate with a focused intensity, savoring every texture: the crunch of the garden salad, the savory garlic of the chicken, and the comforting weight of the roasted potatoes.
"The greatest meal I've had... since the hell began," he whispered to the shadows.
Training under Ice and Still hadn't been an education; it had been an ordeal. To master the Ice element, they didn't just teach him spells—they changed his blood. He had been forced to consume raw ice twice a day to "align" his internal temperature. He had been left naked on frozen peaks for weeks at a time, his skin turning blue, then white, then a terrifying, translucent grey.
They told him he had to become a vessel for True Ice, a substance so cold it didn't just freeze things—it erased their heat entirely. He had survived, but he had left a piece of his humanity on those mountain tops.
At 9 PM, Lucian gathered a fresh set of clothes and headed back to the common room. The fire in the hearth was dying down.
"Cseasey," Lucian said, approaching the desk. "I want the private bath. I want it locked. I don't want to be disturbed."
"A silver extra for the private reservation," Cseasey chirped, already reaching for the key. "The left door, down the hall. I'll make sure the halls stay quiet for you."
Lucian paid and entered the bathhouse. The air was thick with moisture and the pleasant scent of cedar. A stone pool of steaming water sat in the center of the room, reflecting the flickering torchlight. Lucian locked the heavy wooden door behind him.
Then, he began his ritual.
He didn't undress. Instead, he walked slowly around the room, his hand trailing along the stone walls. Everywhere his skin made contact, the stone turned white. Frost blossomed like rapid-growing flowers, spreading in intricate, jagged patterns. He touched the door, the floor, and the ceiling, weaving a "seal" of ice that would prevent any sound—or any heat—from escaping.
When the room was entirely encased in a thin layer of rime, he stood in the center. He closed his eyes, his breathing slowing until his heart sounded like a drum in the silence.
Freeze.
The change was instantaneous and violent. The "warm" water in the pool didn't just cool—it erupted into a solid block of ice so fast the stone basin cracked. The steam in the air turned into "diamond dust," falling to the floor in a shimmering, lethal blanket.
The temperature didn't just drop; it vanished. Within seconds, the room hit negative one-hundred degrees.
Lucian stood in the absolute center of the frost, his eyes snapping open. They weren't brown anymore—they were a piercing, glowing cerulean. He wasn't shivering. To him, this wasn't cold; it was the only place he felt truly at home. This was his Authority, a dominion over the end of all movement.
He wasn't here to bathe. He was here to remember who he had become before he hunted the men who thought they knew what "danger" looked like.