CHAPTER 1 — THE COLD THAT DOESN'T ASK
Cold came first.
Not the sharp kind that burned the skin, nor the sudden shock that forced breath from the lungs. This cold was heavier than that. It pressed inward, slow and patient, settling into muscle and bone as if it had always belonged there.
Eirik opened his eyes.
White stone filled his vision. Not clean white—this was weathered, scarred by long exposure to frost and time. Cracks ran through it like old veins, thin layers of ice clinging to the seams. Above him, the ceiling arched too low, carved from the same stone, damp with condensation that gathered and fell in irregular drops.
One landed on his cheek.
The shock of it made him inhale sharply.
Air scraped down his throat like shards.
Pain followed immediately, blooming across his chest and ribs, dull but deep, the kind that didn't fade when ignored. His body felt wrong—lighter in some places, heavier in others. His hands were thinner. His fingers shook slightly when he tried to move them, joints stiff and uncooperative.
He lay still.
That was the first decision he made.
Sound reached him slowly. A low murmur, uneven and broken. Breathing that wasn't his own. Somewhere nearby, someone coughed—a wet, rattling sound that ended too quickly. Metal scraped against stone. Chains, maybe. Or tools.
Eirik closed his eyes again, not out of fear, but to listen.
His heartbeat was fast but steady. No panic. That, too, he noted.
Cold stone pressed against his back. It leached warmth with practiced efficiency, the way winter claimed things without malice. His clothes—coarse fabric, too thin—did nothing to stop it. He could feel the outline of his spine against the floor, every shallow breath pulling ache through his ribs.
This wasn't a dream.
Dreams didn't carry weight like this. They didn't press cold into the marrow.
Memory surfaced slowly, not as images but as absence.
There should have been something before this.
A life. A room. A moment.
Instead, there was only a blank stretch where answers should have been, like snow covering tracks. He searched for emotion—fear, anger, confusion—and found only a distant curiosity, muted by exhaustion.
Eirik opened his eyes again.
He was not alone.
The space around him was a long stone chamber, narrow and low, lined on both sides with bodies sprawled in uneven rows. Men. Boys. Some barely more than children. Their clothes matched his—rough, undyed cloth, stained dark where sweat and blood had soaked in. Shackles lay discarded at the far end of the room, iron links piled carelessly like something no longer needed.
A few of the bodies shifted weakly. Most did not.
At the far wall, a torch burned low, its flame struggling against the cold air. Shadows stretched and shrank as it flickered, turning still figures into something almost alive.
Almost.
A man near Eirik tried to sit up.
He failed.
His elbows slid uselessly against the stone, fingers clawing for purchase that wasn't there. His breathing came in ragged pulls, each one shorter than the last. Frost clung to his hair, thin crystals forming where sweat had cooled too quickly.
Eirik watched without moving.
Not because he didn't care.
Because he understood something instinctively: movement here had cost.
The man's struggle slowed. His chest hitched once, twice.
Then stopped.
No one reacted.
The cold accepted the body immediately, settling into it as if claiming something overdue.
Eirik swallowed.
The sound echoed too loudly in his own ears.
A door opened at the far end of the chamber.
Not gently.
Wood slammed against stone, the impact reverberating through the room. Cold air rushed in, sharper than before, carrying with it the scent of iron and snow. Heavy footsteps followed—measured, unhurried.
Boots crossed the threshold.
The man who entered was wrapped in thick furs, dark and matted with old stains. His shoulders were broad, his posture straight, unaffected by the chill that gnawed at everyone else. Frost clung to his beard, but it didn't seem to bother him. In one gloved hand, he carried a short iron rod.
His gaze swept the chamber.
Not counting.
Assessing.
"Up," he said.
The word wasn't shouted. It didn't need to be. It carried weight, the kind that settled into the room and stayed there.
Some tried to obey immediately. They rose too fast, muscles failing them, bodies collapsing back onto the stone with dull thuds. Others hesitated, eyes darting, calculating whether delay would hurt more than effort.
The man waited.
Eirik pushed himself up slowly, rolling onto his side first, then bracing a palm against the floor. Pain flared along his ribs, sharp but contained. He adjusted his breathing, keeping it shallow, controlled.
Cold stone bit into his knees as he knelt.
Around him, others followed, movements uneven. A few remained motionless on the floor.
The man walked forward, boots crunching softly against frost.
He stopped beside one of the unmoving figures. Nudged it with his foot.
No response.
The iron rod came down once.
Not on the body—but on the stone beside it. The sound cracked through the chamber, loud and final.
"Carry them out," he said, nodding toward the still forms. "They're done."
Two of the kneeling men were dragged forward. They moved stiffly, faces blank with shock, and hauled the bodies away by the arms. Heads lolled. Limbs scraped against the floor.
Eirik's eyes followed them until they disappeared through the door.
Snow drifted in behind them before the door slammed shut again.
"Listen," the man said, turning back to the room. His gaze paused briefly on Eirik—not with interest, but acknowledgment, like noting a stone in a path.
"You belong to the Hall now," he continued. "You eat when told. You work when told. You move when told."
He lifted the iron rod, resting it across his shoulders.
"Those who can't… don't."
Silence followed.
Not the tense kind. The resigned kind.
Eirik lowered his gaze, studying the frost patterns on the stone. They formed shallow whorls, shaped by countless footsteps over time. This place had seen many winters. Many bodies.
The man gestured toward the door.
"Out."
They filed into the cold.
Outside, the world opened abruptly.
Snow stretched in every direction, broken only by dark stone structures rising from the mountainside like jagged teeth. The sky hung low and gray, clouds thick with unfallen snow. Wind swept across the open ground, carrying fine ice that stung exposed skin.
Eirik stepped forward and felt it immediately—the difference between cold and exposure.
This wind didn't push. It pressed.
The Hall loomed ahead, carved directly into the mountain. Thick walls of black stone rose without ornament, their surfaces scarred by age and weather. No banners flew. No symbols marked ownership.
It didn't need them.
People moved across the grounds in disciplined lines, bundled figures carrying tools, hauling sleds, reinforcing stone barriers against the wind. None spared the newcomers more than a glance.
Eirik took it all in.
The scale. The silence. The way the environment dictated behavior without orders.
This place did not accommodate weakness. It erased it.
They were herded toward a lower structure near the base of the mountain, little more than a stone barrack with a slanted roof thick with snow. Smoke rose weakly from a vent, quickly torn apart by the wind.
Inside, it was marginally warmer.
Barely.
The floor was packed earth, frozen solid. Rows of low wooden pallets lined the walls, each topped with a thin layer of fur that smelled faintly of mold. A single brazier burned at the center, its heat insufficient to reach the corners.
A different man waited there. Older. Leaner. His eyes were sharp, his expression bored.
"Names don't matter," he said without preamble. "You're Trell now."
Thralls.
The word settled heavily.
"You'll work until you drop," he continued. "If you live long enough, you'll be tested. If you pass, you move up. If not—" He shrugged. "The mountain keeps you."
He gestured toward the pallets.
"Rest while you can."
Eirik chose a spot near the wall, where the stone radiated a faint, lingering warmth from the mountain's core. He sat, then lay back slowly, conserving energy. Around him, others collapsed onto the pallets, some groaning softly, others staring blankly at the ceiling.
Time passed indistinctly.
The wind outside howled, rising and falling like something breathing. Snow hissed against stone. Somewhere above them, something heavy shifted, sending a faint tremor through the walls.
Eirik closed his eyes.
Not to sleep.
To think.
His thoughts were slow, deliberate. He tested memory again, gently this time. Fragments surfaced—sensations rather than images. Warmth. A different kind of cold. A sense of ending.
Death.
The realization came without drama.
He had died.
There was no fear attached to it. Just acceptance.
And now, he was here.
The world did not explain itself. It did not ask if he was ready.
It had simply continued.
A faint pressure brushed against his awareness then—so light he almost missed it. Not physical. Something else. Like the air tightening briefly before a storm.
Text appeared.
Not in the air. Not carved into stone.
It was simply there.
Clear. Flat. Unadorned.
[RECORD LOGGED]
Event: Awakening
Status: Conscious
Observation: Subject remains stable.
Heaven Attention: None
It vanished as soon as it appeared.
No sound accompanied it. No warmth or chill.
Eirik did not react outwardly.
Inside, he noted it carefully.
No reward. No instruction. No explanation.
Just a record.
He exhaled slowly.
If this thing existed, it was not here to help him.
That was useful to know.
Footsteps approached.
The older man returned, this time carrying a ledger of his own—a physical one, bound in dark leather. He called out numbers, not names, assigning work details for the following day.
When he reached Eirik, he paused briefly, eyes flicking up and down.
"You," he said. "Stone haul."
Eirik nodded once.
The man moved on.
Night fell quickly.
The brazier burned low. Breath fogged the air. Bodies shifted and stilled as exhaustion claimed them one by one. Somewhere nearby, someone sobbed quietly, the sound muffled by furs and fear.
Eirik lay awake.
The mountain creaked around them, stone contracting in the cold. Wind scraped snow across the roof in uneven waves. He focused on his breathing, slow and measured, conserving warmth.
Survival here would not come from strength.
Not yet.
It would come from restraint.
From knowing when to move—and when not to.
Outside, the storm thickened.
And the Hall endured, indifferent to who would be left behind by morning.