The snow fell in silence, soft as a secret, covering the world in white. Inside the workshop, he carved again, fingers raw, heart hollow. And then—he heard it. A breath. Not his own. Not the wind. Something small, fragile, alive. He froze, chisel trembling in his hand, staring at the figure in front of him… and the world shifted.
The boy staggered backward, clutching at his chest. His breath rasped, thin and broken, as if the cold itself were grinding through his ribs. A line split across him — jagged, impossible — running from collarbone to sternum. Each inhale deepened it, dust spilling from the crack like faint smoke.
The man in front of him did not move. His figure loomed in the lantern's breathless glow, shadows cutting his face into something sharp and cruel. His hand tightened around a chisel. The steel gleamed, wicked and patient, catching the trembling light.
The boy's voice broke from him in a whisper. "Please… I don't understand."
The man leaned forward, his expression caught between grief and fury. His lips barely moved, yet the words shivered through the silence like a confession.
"If I can make you…" His grip trembled. "…then I can break you."
The boy froze, heart hammering. His gaze flicked up — and in the man's eyes, he saw his own reflection. The same shape of brow. The same mouth. The same face, only older, wearier, stained with blood at the temple.
"No…" The boy's voice cracked, panic clawing into him. "That's not possible—"
The chisel rose. The lantern hissed.
And as the blade began to fall—
Darkness.