Jack and Nicholas sat across from each other at a modest wooden table. The rich aroma of stew filled the air as Jack devoured a steaming bowl with fervor. Nicholas watched him quietly, then broke the silence.
"So, what you're telling me is that your mother tried to kill your father... and that's when he activated the compass?"
Jack, seemingly ignoring the question, continued slurping his stew. He emptied the bowl in one go, placed it on the table, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Yes..." he replied at last.
His expression turned somber, eyes downcast. After a brief pause, he added quietly,
"Do you think they could still be alive?"
Nicholas blinked, taken aback by the weight of the question. He coughed, choking slightly on his own stew.
"Cough, cough."
He stared at Jack, who remained fixated on his empty bowl. Letting out a long sigh, Nicholas leaned back in his chair.
"I don't know..." he said. "But what I can tell you is that... that thing wasn't your mother."
Jack's eyes lifted, confusion and pain etched into his face.
"You see, Jack, you're part of an important family here in the North," Nicholas continued. "Your mother rebelled against her bloodline, suppressing her powers to live an ordinary life in the Eastern Glades."
He paused, gathering his thoughts.
"She was one of only two in her generation who inherited the Frost Lineage."
Me... part of a lineage?
Jack's eyes widened, disbelief slowly giving way to a flicker of hope.
"I tried speaking to your father. As I told you, he's a friend of mine. I crafted that compass for him. And that dagger—" he nodded to the blade resting on the table, "was forged for your grandfather."
He looked Jack straight in the eyes.
"The Frost Lineage doesn't just endure the cold... it commands it.
And now, it's awakened in you."
Nicholas's tone darkened.
"From what I can tell, the only one capable of summoning a storm and possessing someone is your mother's brother—your uncle. Only someone of the Frost Lineage can control the cold to such an extent."
Standing, Nicholas walked over to the window and gazed out at the snow-blanketed village. Sunlight spilled through the frost-rimmed panes, illuminating his hazel eyes.
"You awakened your lineage just before death. That's why the stab healed, why your skin turned to ice."
Turning back to Jack, he smiled faintly.
"It's truly a miracle you're alive."
Jack sat in silence, the weight of the revelation settling heavily over him. His voice finally broke the stillness, soft and distant.
"We were going to have dessert that day, you know..."
There was sorrow in his words, like a wound freshly reopened.
"I promised not to make her worry. And the last thing she saw... was me piercing her chest."
His expression turned grim, eyes clouded with regret.
"I saw a tear fall from her cheek."
He clenched his fist. His arm trembled, muscles tight with emotion.
"The least I could do was wait in the basement. I refused to follow simple orders..."
Nicholas watched him quietly, empathy in his gaze.
"Hey," he said gently, "how about we go outside?"
Jack looked up, curiosity flickering behind the sadness.
"Where are we going?"
Nicholas gave a confident smile.
"We're going to my workplace."
The crisp winter air greeted them as they stepped outside. Snow crunched underfoot, soft and steady, breaking the silence of the quiet village.
Jack was wrapped in a brown coat—slightly oversized to conceal the icy sheen of his skin. His dark clothes clung to him beneath the thick fabric, and at his side, a new gray sheath held his dagger securely. His large boots left deep tracks in the snow, matching Nicholas's stride.
Nicholas wore a coat similar to the day before, though today's was a deeper shade—almost burgundy. His sturdy brown boots held firm against the frozen ground.
The village mirrored the style of Nicholas's cottage—wooden homes, scattered loosely across the white landscape. At the center stood a statue of a cloaked man, his right hand holding a beautiful hammer pointed toward the sky.
Nicholas led Jack to a wooden structure, smaller and rougher than the others—more like a storage shed than a home. Tools and scraps were piled outside, hinting at the work done within.
From behind a nearby tree, a young man peeked out. His brown hair poked from beneath a hood, and dark eyes observed Jack with careful interest. When Jack met his gaze, the young man quickly ducked behind the tree again.
"Who is that?" Jack asked.
Nicholas glanced over, then smiled as he continued walking.
"Don't mind him," he said. "He's a bit shy. Not many his age around here."
They entered the silent workshop.
The air inside was thick with the scent of wood and iron. Dust floated lazily in the beams of light filtering through the shutters. Tools, metals, strange artifacts—all were scattered around the room. In the center stood a wooden table, and in front of it, a single chair.
Nicholas approached the table and picked up an iron hammer resting there. Then he grabbed a block of wood with his other hand. Glancing back at Jack, he gave a mischievous grin.
"You see, Jack... you're not the only one that's special in this world."
He gently tapped the wooden block with the hammer.
A second later, a glimmering yellow light burst from the spot. The room was bathed in its warm glow, reflecting across the icy plains outside.
When the light faded, the block of wood had vanished—replaced by a small wooden train toy, delicate and detailed, resting in Nicholas's hand.
Tiny flickers of golden light still hung in the air, twinkling softly before fading.
Jack stared in disbelief.
What the—
Nicholas looked at him, pride gleaming in his eyes.
"Welcome to my workshop."