Chapter 13: Whispers Behind Frozen Backs
The snow had not stopped for three full days.
It fell in thick, silent waves that buried the paths, weighted the thatch roofs, and turned the entire valley into a white, muffled world. Inside the ruined keep, Aelric woke to the sound of his own teeth chattering. The fire had died to a few sullen embers. His breath hung in the air like smoke. The mana hum inside him flickered weakly, struggling against the deep cold that had seeped into the stone itself.
He forced himself up, limbs stiff, and rebuilt the fire with the last dry wood he had dragged in yesterday. The flames caught, but they were small and hungry. Not enough to fight the winter that had arrived early and angry.
Outside, the valley looked abandoned. No smoke rose from most chimneys. The villagers were hoarding fuel, rationing every log. Aelric wrapped his thin cloak tighter and stepped into the knee-deep snow. His stomach growled. The last turnip was gone. The fish bones had been boiled twice. Today he would have to earn food again, or go hungry.
He trudged down the hill toward the village square.
The moment he appeared, the atmosphere shifted.
Two women carrying empty buckets stopped talking the instant they saw him. One nudged the other. They turned their faces away and hurried past without a word. A group of men repairing a sledge by Doran's smithy fell silent. Doran himself paused mid-hammer, his eyes narrowing as Aelric approached.
Aelric kept walking, pretending not to notice. But he felt every stare like a cold finger on the back of his neck.
At the well, Mila Greenthorn was filling her own bucket. She looked up, saw him, and her mouth tightened.
"You again," she said, voice flat. "The snow is deep. Most of us are staying close to our own fires. What do you want this time?"
"Work," Aelric answered simply. "Anything that earns a meal."
Mila let out a short, humorless breath. "Work? In this? The fields are buried. The paths are treacherous. Even the strong men are waiting for the wind to ease." She studied him for a long moment, then shook her head. "You look half-frozen already. And there are rumors, boy. People say that big flicker did something to you. That you talk to yourself. That your eyes go strange sometimes."
Aelric felt the words land like stones in his chest, but he kept his face calm. "I am still breathing. I can still work."
Mila hesitated, then pointed toward a small shed behind her hut. "The roof on the goat shelter collapsed under the snow last night. If you can dig it out and prop it up so the animals do not freeze, I will give you a bowl of porridge and some salted meat. But do it quickly. I do not want the whole village saying I am feeding the duke's cursed whelp."
Aelric took the shovel she offered and walked to the shed. The snow was heavy and wet, clinging to the blade. Every scoop sent fresh pain through his shoulders. The mana hum tried to help, pushing warmth into his arms, but the surges were erratic now. Twice he had to stop because a sudden flash of strange images nearly made him drop the shovel: bright rooms, spinning metal parts, voices arguing about "load-bearing structures."
He shook the visions away and kept digging.
Half an hour later, three villagers passed by on their way to check traps. They slowed when they saw him.
One of them, a thick-bearded man named Renn (Lio's uncle), muttered loud enough to carry, "Look at that. Still here. Still pretending he belongs. After that flicker he has been acting odd. Eyes glassy. Talking under his breath. Mark my words, that boy is touched."
The second man spat into the snow. "Indifference is the kindest thing we can give him. If we start feeding him and sheltering him, he will never leave. Better he starves now than we all suffer later when he brings more trouble."
The third only shook his head and kept walking, but the look he gave Aelric was pure skepticism, as if the boy were a stray dog that might bite at any moment.
Aelric kept shoveling. The words hurt, but they also sharpened something inside him. He understood their fear. A classless outsider who survived a massive mana flicker and now behaved strangely was a threat to their fragile balance. They had lost too much already. They protected what little they had by refusing to care.
By the time he finished clearing the snow and propping the roof with scavenged beams, his hands were raw and bleeding again. Mila brought him the promised bowl of porridge and a small strip of salted meat. She did not invite him inside. She simply set the food on a stump and stepped back.
"Eat quick," she said. "And do not linger. People are talking. They say you are not right in the head anymore."
Aelric ate standing in the snow, the warm porridge burning his tongue in the best way. He felt eyes on him from multiple huts. No one came close. No one offered help. The indifference had hardened into something colder.
Lio appeared as Aelric was finishing the last bite. The boy's face was flushed from running through the snow.
"I heard what they are saying," Lio whispered urgently. "Some of the elders want Elder Brannor to send you away from the village entirely. They think the flicker changed you. That you might bring bad luck. My mother told me to stay away, but I don't care. You are not cursed. You are just… different."
Aelric handed the empty bowl back. "Different is dangerous when food is short."
Lio looked miserable. "I wish they could see what I see. You work harder than most men twice your age. You don't complain. You don't steal. But they only see the strangeness."
A sudden strong gust of wind whipped snow into their faces. At the same moment the mana inside Aelric surged violently. A vivid image slammed into his mind: a man in a white coat standing in front of a glowing screen, pointing at lines of symbols and saying, "Efficiency is survival." The vision was so clear that Aelric staggered.
Lio grabbed his arm. "What is it? Your eyes went blank again!"
Aelric blinked hard until the image faded. "Nothing. Just tired."
But Lio was not convinced. He stepped back half a pace, the first time he had ever shown even a flicker of doubt. "Maybe… maybe you should rest today. Stay in the keep. I will bring you something later if I can."
Aelric watched Lio hurry away, shoulders hunched against the wind and against the growing pressure from the adults.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of cold and isolation. He cleared snow from the path to the well so others could use it. No one thanked him. He helped an old woman carry a heavy basket partway to her hut. She took it from him at the door without a word and closed it in his face.
By evening the skepticism had spread like frost. When he passed the smithy, Doran turned his back deliberately. When he approached the communal grain shed to offer help stacking sacks, the two men guarding it told him to keep walking.
"You have done enough strange things for one week," one of them growled. "We do not need your kind of help."
Aelric returned to the keep as the sun disappeared behind the ridges. The hall felt emptier than ever. He built the fire high with the last of the wood and sat close to it, wrapping his arms around his knees.
The mana hum twisted again, bringing another flash: a workshop filled with tools, a calm voice saying, "When resources are scarce, innovation becomes mandatory."
He pressed his forehead to his knees and breathed through the pain until the vision passed.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the fire crackled.
Aelric lifted his head and stared into the flames.
The locals had drawn their circle tighter, leaving him on the outside. Skepticism had become suspicion. Indifference had become active avoidance.
He was more alone than he had been since the day he left Thornhold.
Yet somewhere beneath the hurt and the cold and the pounding in his skull, a small, stubborn spark refused to die.
They did not see him.
But he saw them.
He saw their leaking roofs, their broken tools, their frightened faces.
And he was beginning to see how everything could be different.
The mana surged once more, gentler this time, almost like a promise.
Aelric closed his eyes and let the warmth spread through him.
He would survive this winter.
He would survive their fear.
And one day, when they had no choice but to look at him, they would see something they had never expected.
A boy who had been discarded.
A boy who refused to stay broken