The wind howled outside, brushing against the wooden walls of the cabin like a creature searching for a way in. It rattled the thin glass panes and tugged at the chimney, but inside, the warmth of the fire softened the edge of the storm. The baby—no longer just a helpless infant, but something aware—lay quietly in his cradle, swaddled in wool and silence.
He had begun to recognize patterns.
The way his mother shifted her weight when she walked. The soft cadence of her lullabies. The exact creak in the floorboards when someone passed the hearth. These things stood out more sharply to him now. His mind, though still confined in the fragile shell of a baby's body, felt less foggy with each passing day.
And then there was the cold. It was no longer something that visited him—it lived in him.
It started in his sleep.
He would dream of falling snow, of wind curling like a serpent through the trees. He'd dream of silence—a perfect, weighted silence that wrapped around the world like a thick woolen cloak. In these dreams, he was not a baby. He stood tall and older, dressed in fur and frost, walking across an endless sheet of ice beneath a sky full of stars.
Sometimes he saw the outline of a figure—tall, sharp-eyed, with a beard like frost and eyes like a glacier. The man never spoke, but he always looked directly at him. Not with love. Not with hatred. With expectation.
Today, the cradle creaked as he stirred. The blanket slipped slightly, revealing a tiny hand twitching with unfamiliar intent. His fingers curled inward, and the familiar coolness surged. This time, stronger.
The thread of cold wove down his palm and across the cradle's wooden edge. A fine sheen of frost trailed behind, glittering like powdered glass in the early light. It didn't last long, but he saw it—and so did his mother.
She had paused in the middle of folding laundry. Her hands, holding a small shirt, lowered slowly as her eyes settled on the thin coat of frost. She didn't scream or panic. She just watched.
"Again," she said quietly, almost reverently.
The baby blinked. Her voice was curious, not afraid.
He flexed his fingers again. This time, nothing happened. A tiny sigh of frustration welled up in his chest, but no sound escaped. Instead, his mother came closer and crouched beside the cradle.
"You're growing faster than I expected," she whispered, brushing his forehead. "But it's not just the power, is it? You see more. Like you've seen too much already."
She didn't know how right she was.
Later that day, his father came home.
He was a tall man, broad-shouldered with weathered hands and a permanent furrow in his brow. He brought in chopped wood, shaking snow from his boots. There was a kind of quiet tension between him and the mother—one not built on anger, but on uncertainty.
The father didn't look at the baby often. When he did, it was brief, uncertain. As if he wasn't sure what he was seeing. A child? A mystery? A burden?
But the baby watched him.
He watched everything.
When night fell, the wind picked up again. The fire sputtered and flickered. Something scratched at the edge of his senses—an itch in the air, a subtle warning.
He turned his head toward the window, small neck straining. Outside, the snow shifted. Not a person, not a shape exactly… but movement. Like a breeze through the trees, only it didn't follow the wind's rhythm.
Danger. He felt it. Not close, but not far either. Just beyond the tree line. Watching.
His instincts screamed in silent urgency.
Was it a monster? A creature of myth? Had the world already noticed his presence?
He closed his eyes and focused. For the first time, he tried willing the cold to form, not just reacting to emotion or accident. His palm warmed slightly, then cooled. A faint breeze stirred near his fingers.
It was difficult—like trying to move a muscle that hadn't been used in years. But he felt the connection. A tiny node of power, deep and slow like an underground spring.
It wasn't much. But it was his.
He drifted off shortly after, but uneasily. The dreams returned. This time, the man of ice stood closer, and his eyes were narrowed.
A single word echoed through the dream like a breath of wind across tundra:
"Survive."
Attributes Update
Strength: 2
Dexterity: 1
Constitution: 3
Intelligence: 6
Wisdom: 6
Charisma: 1
Luck: 6 (+1)
Skills Update
Cry (Lvl 1)
Grip (Lvl 2)
Perception (Lvl 3) (You notice subtle things most can't.)
Frost Touch (Lvl 2) (You can summon a thin layer of frost with concentration.)
Dream Glimpse (Lvl 1) (Your dreams connect you faintly to your divine bloodline.)