The Road of Eternal Cold
Chapter One: Oblivion and Ice
It was not a road, but a black ribbon of frozen oblivion. Sion walked it barefoot, and the cold entered through the soles of his feet not like a chill, but like an ancient memory returning to reside in his bones. The cold here was not an enemy, but a state of being, a language the place spoke to tell every passerby: "You are temporary, and I am eternal."
For long hours he walked, and the horizon did not change. Until faint yellow dots appeared, dancing in the darkness. As he approached, they turned out to be huts, a long row of them, like rotten teeth in an old crone's mouth. He chose the second hut, and knocked three times.
The door opened slightly; a single eye the color of wet clay stared from within. "Food. And shelter," Sion said in a hoarse voice. He entered a world of wavering shadows, the smell of burning damp wood filling the place.
The old man behind the worn-out table heated a thin soup and dry bread for him. "The road took two this week. Their corpses will be firewood for the others."
"I am not firewood," Sion replied, drinking the soup which was more like warm water carrying memories of vegetables.
They spoke a little. Sion of the silver he produced for payment, and of its silence compared to the scream of copper. The old man of the last hut in the row, the farthest, the most isolated. Three silver pieces. Sion paid four, and asked for food for the next day as well.
"Everyone leaves at dawn," said the old man.
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
The hut was like a roofed grave. Worn-out rush mats, a thin blanket, a crack in the roof through which moonlight entered like a suspended silver knife. Sion took out his metal pendant, and in the moonlight the symbols carved on it seemed to move. "Elidor," he whispered the name, and the walls whispered it back.
He slept on his back, the pendant on his chest, his eyes open. Outside, the wind had learned new melodies. Then came the sound: the rustle of cloth on cloth, footsteps as light as a feather falling on snow. Sion did not move, but his eyes began to glow in the dark with a faint blue light.
Three shadows slid from the door. Flat black masks with no eyes or mouths. The first headed towards the bag, the second towards the pillow, the third stood at the door holding a chain with a metal sphere that exhaled black vapor. Before the second thief's hand could touch the pillow, Sion's hand moved.
It was not a fighting move, but a remembering. Remembering how to grasp. His grip closed on the thief's wrist, and the shock the thief felt was not electric, but a memory—every particle in his body remembering it was something else, somewhere else. The thief rose into the air, suspended like a bubble in thick oil, and his black mask began to crack with veins of white light.
The second thief froze, his dagger trembling in his hand. He looked at Sion, who was now standing, the thin blanket around his waist, the scar on his neck glowing in harmony with the pendant. "Daring without wisdom is an invitation to extinction," Sion said in a quiet voice.
He threw the first thief towards the door. The sound of the impact was like the sound of a void being filled. The black mask shattered into black dust that evaporated before hitting the ground. The revealed face was that of a pale young man, and on his forehead was a mark: a circle with an inverted triangle inside.
"Today, you are lucky. The cold will teach you what your mothers failed to."
The thieves left, carrying their paralyzed comrade. Sion stood at the window, watching the black road that absorbed the moonlight like a dry sponge. He opened his pendant; the map on the strange leather began to move, the lines rearranging themselves towards a single point: Elidor. And beneath the name, new words appeared: "The road is not measured in miles, but in the memories you leave behind. Elidor is not a place, but a time. And you... are not a seeker, but a fugitive."
He closed the pendant, and this time, the cold came from within.
Outside, on a distant hill, the thieves were not alone. A fourth figure stood with them, taller than them all. He raised his hand towards the moon, and his long fingers released a small spark. On the distant horizon, the purple fog that bordered the road began to move; it was coming towards them.
At dawn, Sion left the hut. The old man stood on his threshold. "I said everyone leaves at dawn."
"I said perhaps I do not."
"And now?"
Sion looked at the road, at the purple fog that was closer now, creeping like an animal awakening from a long slumber. "Now... I discover why the cold follows me."
And he headed towards the fog.
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End of Chapter One ❄️