A blizzard had battered Inkbank for an entire week without pause.
At first, the townsfolk tried to dig the snow away, but it kept coming, swallowing every path and doorway faster than they could clear it.
A young boy with dark brown hair trudged through the cutting winds, his olive-green cloak whipping around his shoulders. Erden pulled his coat collar tight around his neck, breath shallow and raw. He had misjudged the cold. Three layers had kept him warm enough yesterday, but tonight, they were failing him.
He was on his way home, feet numb beneath the snow that reached his knees. The world had changed so suddenly. No one was ready for a disaster like this. His family was fighting to hold on.
His mother had become the backbone of their home when his father died. His sister kept the house in order. Erden's duty was simple: leave the house, find what food he could, return alive.
In one hand he gripped an old shovel, in the other a thin sack with two loaves of bread and three scraps of meat. In this cold, that was worth more than gold. He was not alone on the street. Every family sent someone out like him, braving the snow to keep from starving.
Most came to Old Myshkin's store, a small house turned shop by a kind old man who had always helped the neighborhood. Erden scraped a narrow path through the drifts until the shape of his own house came into view. He rang the cracked doorbell.
His mother opened the door.
Inside, his sister sat at the table in the dim living room, bent over her notes. No one spoke much these days. Erden handed the sack to his mother and watched her unpack their meal.
While he waited, he wandered to the old wooden cabinet by the wall. Other shelves were stacked with odds and ends, but one shelf stood out. His father's certificate for a literature prize, his mother's painting award, Emma's shining athletics trophy. His sister was taller than him by four inches and stronger in every way that mattered.
He felt that quiet sting in his chest again. There were no awards for him. Just the cold outside and the hunger inside.
His mother called him to eat. Dinner was stale bread, minced meat, a handful of withered greens. He hated vegetables but there was no room for taste. He and Emma ate in silence, clearing their plates as quickly as they could.
Later, Erden climbed the creaking stairs to his room. His small wooden desk sat against the window. The weak glow of an oil lamp flickered over his open journal. He had started writing when the snow first fell, trying to understand what was happening to their world. No one had answers. The tropics were burning with drought while Inkbank froze to death. His town had never known cold like this.
He wondered how many would die before the snow stopped. Outside, the sky was black. He let the lamp sputter out and fell onto his thin mattress, too tired to think.
Something cold touched his cheek. Erden jolted awake.
Half his room was gone, swallowed by a sea of shifting black. He felt it drag at his arms, pulling him under with a cold, living weight. His mind fought to break free, but there was nothing to fight.
"Mother… Emma… Uncle Myshkin…"
He thought of the people he loved as the black sea devoured him whole.
Erden was still alive. He opened his eyes slowly and checked his hands. Dry. His clothes were untouched. His mind strained to piece things together. The world around him was empty ruin. This was not Inkbank. He was not in his house. The air was clear, the wind no longer biting.
He turned and froze.
A single sheet of paper floated in the air, defying gravity. Letters appeared on its surface like ink bleeding through old cloth.
Good morning, Erden.
He reached for it but his fingers slipped through.
You have passed one of the trials. You have been chosen for rebirth.
"What… what is this nonsense?"
Erden stepped back, but the floating page drifted closer, impossible to escape.
In this world, survival will demand more than fear. You will need power. You will need to find the true end.
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