When Faith Dies?

ACT 0: What the Beggar Saw

The beggar woke up at dusk after a tiring afternoon of doing his survival stuff, as he always did. His bones ached against the cobblestones, the chill of the evening seeping through his threadbare cloak. Another day of survival in the Great Kingdom of Nautilus—another day of outstretched hands and hollow stomachs.

The streets stirred in the evening slowly as the afternoon of the kingdom is a no go for any business due to extreme heat. Merchants rolled open their stalls, their voices sharp with barter and boredom. The beggar settled into his usual spot, a recessed doorway where the shadows clung thickest. He had no name worth remembering, no past worth recounting. Just a crippled old man, forgotten by the world.

Then, the boy appeared.

He was young—fifteen, perhaps—but moved with an unnatural stillness. Pale hair, like frost on a grave, framed a face devoid of expression. And his eyes... The beggar shuddered. Empty. Not the emptiness of despair, but something worse: the void of a creature that had never known light at all.

The boy took a step. Then another.

And the ground froze beneath him.

A perfect sheet of ice spread from his boots, crackling outward in jagged fractals. The beggar’s breath hitched. He’d heard whispers of Ether-Engines, of the gifted few who wielded elemental power—but this? This was no controlled flame or summoned breeze. This was wrong.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. A woman dropped her basket, apples rolling into the gutter. A blacksmith’s hammer stilled mid-strike.

Then, the first stone flew.

It struck the boy’s temple with a sickening thud. Blood welled, dark as ink against his pallid skin. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry out. Just kept walking, ice blooming in his wake.

The mob erupted.

"Monster!" someone screamed.

"Kill it before it curses us all!"

Rocks, rotten fruit, a rusted dagger—the air turned violent. The beggar’s gut twisted. He’d seen cruelty before, had endured it himself, but this? This was a frenzy, a pack of wolves tearing at something they didn’t understand.

And the boy—gods, the boy just took it.

Blood streaked his face. His tunic ripped under grasping hands. Still, he didn’t fight. Didn’t speak.

Something in the beggar snapped.

"Enough!" he roared, lurching forward on his bad leg. The crowd ignored him, but he shoved through anyway, grabbing the boy’s wrist. It was cold. Not the chill of winter, but the deep, gnawing freeze of a tomb.

"Come with me," the beggar hissed, yanking him into a side alley.

The boy followed without resistance.

The beggar’s "home" was a crumbling lean-to wedged between two tenements, its walls patched with moldy tarps. He lit the stove with trembling hands, the flame sputtering to life.

"Sit," he ordered, nudging the boy toward the heat. "Warm yourself."

The boy obeyed, lowering himself onto a stool. His movements were slow, deliberate—like a puppet with half its strings cut. The beggar studied him: the gaunt cheeks, the hollow eyes, the way his fingers curled stiffly, as if unused to touch.

A minute passed. Then another.

The stove’s fire guttered—and died.

Not smothered. Not starved of air.

Frozen solid.

The beggar recoiled. Ice crawled up the iron grate, glistening in the dim light. His pulse hammered. "What are you?"

The boy lifted his gaze. For the first time, his lips parted.

"...James," he whispered. The name sounded foreign on his tongue, like a word dug up from a grave.

The beggar swallowed. "James, then. What in the Seven Hells were you doing out there? Why didn’t you fight back?"

Silence.

Then, softer:

"Do you want to know my story?"

The question hung between them, weighted with something the beggar couldn’t name. Dread? Hope? He exhaled sharply.

"Yes."

James’ eyes flickered—just once—with something almost human.

And the frost on the stove deepened.

ACT 1: Ether Engine

The boy’s voice was a whisper, his story unfolding like frost on glass and through his explanation had to relive the past few hours of his life which he earnestly wanted to forget forever.

A simple day, the sun as bright as it could be, but the clouds protecting the people eventually from the blazing sun, there walks a man towards his destination.

He holds the dagger of his mother close to his heart. His identity, nothing much to be told just that, the teenager is the son of a merchant father and a dead warrior mother. He who didn’t feel the warmth of his mother’s love after reaching the tender age of 5.

For the last 10 years, this very boy lived for that one purpose for which he can even give his life away if needed to and he won’t be compromising till he gets his revenge as cold as possible and thus end the life those horrendous murderers, who devoid him of his mother’s gentle love and care.

As, he thinks about all this stuff, he reaches the gates of his youth academy which he attended since junior high. Thus begins the journey, of his life to prove to world what he is, or so he thought.

James Rubenblood slid into the last bench’s shadows as the academy bell screamed its final warning. Outside the arched windows, Nautilus Kingdom’s city of wealth, the Rudenberg City’s Ether-towers speared a bruise-purple dawn. He traced the hidden outline of his mother’s dagger beneath his threadbare uniform jacket—today, I become the blade you needed.

*Three wolves circled:*

*Adam Hydron*

- Slid beside James, turquoise hair tied with clattering fishbone charms.

- Grinned, flashing sharp incisors. "Ready to melt Chambers’ face off when you get a battle-engine?"

- Sea-serpent tattoo coiled on his neck—mark of exiled Fishmen royalty.

- {The Fishmen’s exile was old history but Adam’s tattoo marks him as the heir to a gigantic kingdom of the marine folk, who live and breathe in water in the Kingdom of Hydron .}

*Ruby Goldsen*

- Perched front-center like a jeweled hawk.

- Golden curls haloed by stained-glass light.

- Didn’t glance back. She never did.

- {Only Daughter of Duke Edith Goldsen, the lord of Rudenberg City and a noble of the Kingdom}

- {She wants to succeed her father and become the Strongest Duke of the Kingdom.}

*Noah Chambers*

- Kicked James’ desk, ruby cufflinks glinting. "Dreaming of your corpse-mom, merchant trash?"

- Smelled of fire-peppers and inherited power.

- {Son of a wealthy Government Official Father, who has an enmity towards James’ father for professional reasons, so to be a good son his father’s book, Noah is used to bullying James.}

Teacher Weathers entered, his mechanical eye whirring. "Silence! Today, the Archive gifts your *Ether-Engines*—the soul-forged power that defines your destiny!"

Chambers snorted. "Destiny’s bloodline. My father’s Volcanic Engine proves it."

### ⚙ THE RULES OF ASCENSION

Weathers slammed a hologram projector. Gears materialized, interlocking in mid-air:

"*Three pillars shape your Engine:*

*Lineage* — Chambers smirked — "*influences, not dictates.

*Personality* — Ruby leaned forward, silver eyes reflecting data.

*Soul* — James’ fist tightened under the desk.

A shimmering core materialized—a miniature star trapped in crystal. "This is an *Ether-Engine*. It converts your life-force into elemental dominion!"

Adam raised a webbed hand. "Why’s mine gotta be water-based? Can’t I get fire?"

"*Potency* decides your strength," Weathers tapped the hologram. Percentages flared:

- 10%: Flicker a candle

- 50%: Command storms

- **90%+: Shatter mountains**

Ruby’s voice cut like frost. "Secondary Engines manifest at *Master Gear*, correct? Evolved forms via Ether-symbiosis?"

"Precisely, Miss Goldsen." Weathers zoomed in on a gear fractaling into twin cores. "But first—"

Chambers’ whisper slithered to James: "Your merchant blood won’t spark past 20%. Just like your mom’s corpse didn’t spark when they dumped her in the—"

**CRACK.**

Adam’s chair screeched back. "Finish that sentence, Chambers. I’ll gut you with a *rusty gear*."

Ruby sighed. "Must primates always mark territory?"

James stayed silent. Let them bark. Today, I become the weapon for my revenge.

### 🔮 THE OMENS

As Weathers droned about gear-stages—*Apprentice (0-10) → Beginner (0-10) → Contemporary*—James watched:

- Ruby’s fingers danced over crystal equations, predicting her own Engine

- Adam cracked his knuckles, ready for war

- Chambers sketched flames devouring a Rubenblood crest

Outside, rain bled down the windows. The city’s heartbeat pulsed—a deep, grinding thrum from the *Ancient Engines Archive* miles away. James felt it in his molars. In his mother’s dagger. In the *cold* pooling beneath his ribs.

Soon, the frost whispered.

Weathers closed the hologram. "Remember: Your Engine reflects the truth you bury. Now—"

The clock tower gong shook the room.

*"—they leave for the Ancient Engines Archive."*

ACT 3: The Ride to Hell

The bus's Ether-engine whined like a dying hound as we left Academy grounds. Rain bled against the windows, streaking the neon slogans: "Your Engine Awaits! Become Legend!" I traced the outline of Mother's dagger beneath my jacket. Today, I promised its hidden edge, I'll earn the power to carve your killers' hearts out. Three rows ahead, Noah Chambers' grating laugh cut through the chatter. "Rubenblood looks greener than sewer slime! Bet he pukes before we even see the Archive!" His cronies cackled. I dug nails into my palm. Focus, James. Vengeance requires calm.

Adam nudged my shoulder, his fish-scale tattoo glinting under harsh lights. "Don't let that Chambers-cancer get to you." He slammed his fist into his open palm. "After you get a battle-engine, we'll shove his teeth down his throat together." I tried to smile but caught Ruby Goldsen watching us from across the aisle. Her silver eyes flickered over me like I was a stain on glass before returning to her Ether-crystal tablet. Always judging. Always above it all. Teacher Weathers stood at the front, droning about "harmonic resonance" and "Potency thresholds." His words dissolved as Chambers appeared over my seat, reeking of cheap Ether-perfume. "Think your merchant blood can handle a real Engine, Rubenblood? Or will it reject you like your mom's corpse rejected warmth?" Adam lunged up, fists coiled. "Say that again, Chambers! I dare—" Weathers' voice cracked like a whip. "Hydron! Sit or lose Archive privileges!" Adam sank back, seething. Chambers smirked. Mother's face flashed behind my eyes—frost-rimed and still.

We plunged into the Ironwood Forest, twisted trees clawing at the bus. Adam muttered darkly about Chambers' upcoming "accident" while I watched shadows dance on Ruby's sharp features. Why does her indifference cut deeper than Chambers’ hate? A pothole jolted us violently. Chambers "stumbled," dumping a vial of sticky Ether-syrup over my head. "Oops," he sneered as the corrosive slime burned my scalp. Adam roared, grabbing Chambers’ collar—but Ruby's cold voice froze us all. "Must you animals always mark your territory? Some of us are preparing for ascension." Her contempt included me. Unclean. Unworthy. I wiped syrup from my eyes as Adam wrestled Chambers off me. The syrup hissed, eating through my jacket sleeve. Chambers laughed. "Look! His Engine hasn't even ignited and he's already melting!" Adam spat at Chambers’ feet. "Touch him again and I'll gut you with a rusty gear." Ruby sighed, turning up her crystal's volume. I closed my eyes. Mother believed in me. Adam believes in me. That has to be enough.

The forest gave way to the Ashen Wastes—a graveyard of dead Engines from the Last War. The Last War’s wreckage still scar the Ashen Wastes – dead engines rusting like skeletons. Skeletons of war-mechs lay half-buried, Ether-cores dark as betrayed promises. Chambers leaned over my seat again, voice dripping poison. "My father told me something interesting about your mom's death. The killers didn't just murder her..." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "...they froze her. Said her eyes shattered like glass when she hit the floor." Adam swung blindly but Chambers dodged. "Truth hurts, eh Rubenblood? Maybe your Engine will freeze you too!" My hands turned numb. Not now. Not here. Teacher Weathers shouted as we rounded the final bend—and there it rose. The Ancient Engine Archive. A mountain of grinding gears and crackling lightning. Adam gripped my arm. "Breathe, brother. This is your day." Ruby finally looked at me, her gaze analytical, clinical. Like I'm a specimen. The bus groaned to a halt before gates taller than sky-titans. Chambers shoved past me. "Time to meet your destiny, Frost-Corpse." Adam threw an arm around my shoulders. "Let's go get you a god-killer engine." I stepped onto the rain-slicked stones, Mother's dagger burning against my ribs. The Archive's central gear shrieked, carving ruinous runes into the weeping sky. Faith brought me here. Vengeance will make me walk out alive.

ACT 4: The Calm before the Ice

The Sarcophagus of Choosing hummed like a caged star. Priestesses chanted as Ruby Goldsen stepped forward, silver hair glowing in the Archive’s ethereal light. She placed her palm on the machine without hesitation.

*GOLDEN LIGHT ERUPTED*

> *"ETHER ENGINE: [AURA LIGHT-TYPE]."*

> *"POTENCY: 91%."*

Luminous wings burst from Ruby’s back, scattering prismatic shards. Chambers whistled. Adam cheered. Teacher Weathers beamed. "Exemplary, Goldsen! A new record!" Ruby’s smile was clinical, triumphant. Her eyes flicked to me—your turn, failure.

Adam shoved me playfully. "Beat 91%, brother!" He bounded to the sarcophagus. The machine flared *SAPPHIRE-BLUE*.

> *"ETHER ENGINE: [HYDRO-VOLT TYPE]."*

> *"POTENCY: 90%."*

Water serpents coiled around Adam’s arms as oceanic mist filled the chamber. He laughed, shaking iridescent droplets from his hair. "Hell yes! We’re ocean warriors, James!" Chambers snorted. "Fish-boy suits you, Hydron."

Noah Chambers swaggered next, sneering at me. "Watch how real bloodlines ignite." His palm slammed down. *CRIMSON FIRE* exploded.

> *"ETHER ENGINE: [VOLCANIC THERMAL-TYPE]."*

> *"POTENCY: 88%."*

Heatwaves warped the air as magma veins pulsed across Chambers’ skin. "Feel that, Rubenblood?" He shot a firebolt at my feet. "Your merchant blood’ll barely spark!" Adam growled, but Weathers nodded stiffly. "Adequate, Chambers."

Silence fell as I approached the sarcophagus. Adam flashed a thumbs-up. Ruby watched like a scientist observing a lab rat. Chambers cracked his flaming knuckles.

Mother’s dagger burned against my ribs. This was it.

“It’s Today Mom”.

### 💀 *THE VOID BLUE SCREAM*

I pressed my palm to the metal. Cold bit deeper than winter. Make me a weapon. Let me avenge her.

The machine *SHUDDERED*.

Where Ruby’s light had been gold, Adam’s water sapphire, Chambers’ fire crimson—mine was *VOID-BLUE*. The color of frozen stars. Of graves.

Ice daggers stabbed up my veins. Frost crackled over my skin, devouring heat. My left eye fogged, vision fracturing into frozen splinters. The voice boomed:

> *"ETHER ENGINE: [ABYSSAL ICE-TYPE]."*

> *"POTENCY: 0%."*

*Silence*

Ruby’s light-wings snuffed out. Adam’s water-serpents vaporized mid-curl. Chambers’ flames guttered like dying candles.

A priestess dropped her incense. "P-Potency *ZERO*?"

Teacher Weathers backed against a gear-column. "Impossible... that Engine is—"

*"CURSED!"* another priestess screamed. "The Ice-Plague!"

And thus, everyone in there fell into a stage of frenzy as what was never meant to be seen by anyone be it dead or alive, came to reality, the only Engine cursed by death—a power that kills its wielder and leaves the continents frozen. History called it the Ice-Plague, for there was evidence history as there was a person to obtained the Abyssal Ice Engine and his death and the world still suffers from its after effects.

I stared at my hand. Ice thickened over my knuckles, pale as a corpse’s flesh. The frost whispered: This is what you are now.

Chambers’ voice shattered the silence—a strangled, disbelieving rasp:

*"What... the hell?"*

***

> ### ❄

> ***When Faith Dies,

> Madness is Born***

> ### ❄

END of CHAPTER-1

*CHAPTER 2 TEASER *

The beggar’s shack held its breath. Frost feathered across the walls as James spoke—a low, fractured monologue of academies, engines, and a mother’s frozen corpse. Outside, the mob’s distant roar faded into Noah’s twilight. The old man watched the boy’s hollow eyes, now glazed with remembered betrayal. Zero percent potency. A cursed engine. A death sentence. When James fell silent, the cold bit deeper. The beggar’s crippled hands trembled—not from chill, but fear. This broken boy carried winter in his veins, and Noah would hunt him like a rabid wolf. As James’ gaze dropped to the dagger at his ribs, the air crackled with promises of vengeance and ruin. Somewhere, the Archive’s gears still turned. Somewhere, Chambers laughed. And in that ice-locked silence, the beggar knew: faith had died today. But madness? It was just awakening.

And in that very condition the beggar shuddered and asked the boy “What will you do now?”.

James’ fingers curled around his mother’s dagger. “What Winter Does Best, End Things”.

>"They call it a curse. But winter always has teeth."

When the Ice Screams

❄️ FLASH RECAP ❄️

The marble floor cracked beneath James' knees as the Abyssal Ice awoke - an Ether-Engine so cursed, priests whisper it froze an entire generation.

Now branded a plague-carrier, he stumbles through Rudenberg's alleyways, each breath frosting the air as the city's fear turns to violence.

Only a nameless beggar stands between him and the mob's stones, offering shelter that smells of mildew and forgotten things.

❄️ Act 5: The Escape

"What... the hell?"

Noah Chambers’ voice echoed like a rock breaking glass.

Silence swept the chamber inside the Ancient Engines Archive, fractured only by the howl of chilling wind that hadn’t existed moments before.

James stood still.

His hand slowly lowered from the sarcophagus, trembling faintly. The blue light that had erupted from his palm dimmed, but the cold remained. Deep. Anchored. Real.

“Potency... zero.” “That’s... that’s the Abyssal Ice.” “Cursed... It’s the Plague.”

The voices that followed weren’t whispers—they were panic made vocal.

A priestess stumbled backward, nearly dropping her Ether-crystal. Another ran to trigger the defence wards while two others stared as though they'd seen a ghost claw its way into the Archive.

James blinked. His breath misted in front of him—slowing, freezing.

His eyes didn’t flicker in fear. They flickered in blank confusion.

Because nothing made sense. Why were they backing away? Why were Adam’s water-serpents gone? Why did even the priestesses tremble?

Ruby took a step back, her wings of light flickering erratically. “That… that’s not a Zero. That’s a funeral bell.”

Chambers' face twisted into a cruel grin. “Of course he’s the Plague. Like mother, like spawn.”

James' lips parted—but no words came. Only air. Sharp and thin and tired. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t breathe. The room had become something else—bigger, colder, collapsing inward.

He looked down at his fingers. Pale. Cracked. White frost webbed between each digit.

Teacher Weathers stepped forward, the light from his mechanical eye dimming. “This is not a gift,” he announced sharply, voice reverberating. “This is a threat.”

Adam roared, “What the hell are you saying? You saw what his Engine did—it’s reacting because he’s scared. He didn’t ask for this!”

Weathers didn’t even glance at him. “A threat doesn’t have to ask. It just is.”

James’ heart splintered into a soundless scream.

The next moment was glass.

Crack— SHATTER.

The Archive’s central platform imploded into a spiral of ice. Not an attack. Not a spell. A reaction.

Void-blue frost exploded outward in jagged fractals. It raced across stone and brass, snapping gears mid-spin and freezing conduits mid-flare. The banners hanging from the rafters shattered like frozen paper.

“PROTECT THE STUDENTS!” a priestess shrieked.

Fire-based knights pushed forward, igniting defence glyphs. But even their flames guttered out before the frost. One woman’s Ether-sword shattered on contact, fragments clinking as they fell.

Ruby raised her shield and shielded three junior students, lips pressed in barely-contained fear.

And Chambers? He laughed—but it was shaky. “Guess trash really is contagious.”

Adam moved for James again, but the air between them hardened into spiked walls of ice. “He’s burning through himself,” Adam shouted. “He doesn’t know what’s happening!”

Weathers activated the Archive’s containment field—runes swirled in the ceiling, attempting to compress the cold.

But it wasn’t enough.

James gasped.

His body convulsed from the Ether overload. His knees buckled.

He wanted it to stop. He just wanted to go back to the moment before the sarcophagus—before truth took everything.

A dozen Archive Knights surged forward.

“SUBDUE HIM!” their captain screamed. “Contain the Plague!”

James looked up—his mother’s name echoing in the abyss of his mind.

You were supposed to become her justice.

Noah's words echoed again—“Like mother, like corpse.”

That was the final blow.

The air around James convulsed. His entire outline flickered in the cold light. Ether surged. Ice howled—and then— he ran.

Except the word wasn’t ran. It was moved. With speed no one could follow and frost under every footfall.

He fled the Archive through a wall of half-formed gear inscriptions, sliding along his own crystalline path. Alarms rang across Rudenberg.

The city didn't just see the explosion of winter.

It felt it.

As snow fell from a cloudless sky and air froze in lungs, people whispered.

“It’s the Ice-Plague.” “It’s back.” “The cursed one has returned.”

Because this wasn’t just another student gone rogue.

Everyone in Rudenberg City had heard the stories.

The last time someone awakened the Abyssal Ice, the continent froze for seven months. Ports were sealed. Crops withered. Thousands died.

Now, it had returned.

And its host... was a fifteen-year-old boy who didn’t understand what he'd become.

James staggered through merchant alleys, every breath whistling shards into his lungs. His legs were seizing. Cold had claimed his fingertips. The Ether burn pulsed up his spine.

He reached the wide plaza outside the Old Tower Gate and collapsed to his knees.

Citizens screamed.

A fish-seller hurled a barrel. It exploded in splinters beside him.

“That’s the boy! The plague-boy!”

A child cried. A woman yelled to “Call the enforcers!” Others threw rocks.

James didn’t move.

He just stared at his hands.

“You were meant to be the sword.” “You were supposed to avenge her.” “You’re a curse.”

A wine bottle flew through the air—glass glinting like ice—

—and it stopped.

The hand that caught it was old. Weathered. Cracked.

A beggar stood before James now. Cloak in tatters, bones stiff, but eyes sharp.

“Leave him be!” he growled, stepping between the boy and the growing mob.

More people jeered. “You’ll freeze too, fool!” Another man: “Let the enforcers take him! Before the city turns to ash!”

The beggar snarled, “It ain’t his fault! He’s a boy. Not a curse.”

A man charged forward—but the beggar moved faster. With surprising strength, he grabbed James under the arm, dragged him to his feet, and whispered: “Move, kid. You’ve got no idea how many knives are waiting.”

Together, they vanished into the alleys of Rudenberg.

Down side streets and sewer grates, over railings and forgotten drainage steps. No one dared follow too far—the chill still hung in the air.

By the time they reached the crumbling alley where mold grew faster than gossip, James collapsed again. Breathing ragged. Eyes barely open.

The beggar leaned him against a barrel. “Frostbitten. Ether burned. Heart shattered.”

He grunted. “Welcome to my home, boy.”

James didn’t speak. He stared at his cracked palms. The dagger is still with me, he thought absently. I’m still alive. But for what?

The beggar sat beside him.

The sirens blared further out.

People shouted. The city hissed in fear.

The Ice-Plague had returned—and it had a face.

Rudenberg would not sleep that night. And neither would the boy whose heart had become winter

❄️ Act 6: Living with Truth

The frost had calmed.

Not vanished. Just... waiting.

The alley stank of damp stone, rust, and gutter oil. Pale mist curled along the floor like forgotten whispers. The boy sat hunched beside a cracked brick wall, his head low, eyes half-lidded. The city’s distant sirens had finally faded—but the chill in the air clung to the bones of Rudenberg.

The beggar watched him quietly, seated across a dying ember in a stolen brazier. His rags steamed slightly, wet from dragging the boy through side alleys to this place—this pocket of nowhere.

He scratched his chin, brow creased beneath strands of silver hair.

“You didn’t ask for help,” the beggar said at last.

James didn’t respond.

“You didn’t run from them, either. Even when the mob chased you. You looked back. Almost like you wanted them to finish what the Archive didn’t.”

Still no answer. Just that dull, frost-bitten stare.

The beggar leaned forward, poking the fire.

“I’ve seen a lot in this city. Magic. Monsters. Men who turn cities to cinders. But what I saw back there?” He jabbed a finger toward the street beyond. “That wasn’t power. That was pain turned inside out.”

James blinked slowly. “I didn’t mean to...”

The words faltered.

The beggar raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t mean to what? Breathe? Live?”

James clenched his jaw, the tiniest spark behind his clouded eyes.

The beggar sat back with a grunt. “So. You want to tell me what happened?”

James spoke with a voice like cracked porcelain.

“The Archive. The others. My coming of age. It was supposed to be... it was supposed to make sense.”

"And he told him—every shattered moment, from the sarcophagus’ glow to the frost in his veins.

The beggar’s calloused hands stilled. For the first time, his eyes lost their mocking glint, darkening like storm clouds over Rudenberg’s spires. Something ancient flickered in his gaze—something that recognized the Abyssal Ice.

END OF FLASHBACK:

‘You’re lucky,’ he muttered, thumb brushing the rim of his flask—a tarnished thing etched with long-faded runes. ‘The Archive prefers its relics frozen. But you? You’re still breathing. That means it wants you alive."’

James stared at his palms again, fingers trembling.

“I trained for ten years. I bled for that moment. I thought I’d get fire. Maybe shadow. Something I could use.” His voice fractured. “Not this.”

The beggar’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Abyssal Ice.” He tapped the brazier’s edge. “They call it cursed for a reason. It's not just rare, boy. It's remembered. Whole provinces starved when the last carrier lost control. Frost that crawls into the soul and never let goes.”

James looked at him, startled. “You... you know about it?”

The beggar grunted. “I’ve read things in libraries that no one was supposed to keep. Heard things whispered by drunk Ex-Knights too afraid to sleep.” He paused. “Some say the Engine isn’t evil. It just... reflects.”

“Reflects?”

“Shows you the truth you bury deepest. The colder the heart, the colder the echo.”

James flinched at that.

The beggar saw it. Pressed gently.

“So what happened to you, boy? What made you so cold inside?”

Silence. The fire crackled softly.

James didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away.

The beggar waited for a time, then stood and adjusted the rags around his shoulders. “I’ve seen grown warriors crumble from less. Yet here you are, frostbitten, shunned, hunted... and alive.”

James' voice was barely a whisper.

“I don’t know why I got it.”

The beggar nodded slowly. “Sometimes the Engine doesn’t give us what we want. It gives us what we carry. And sometimes, that’s a heavier burden than anyone deserves.”

He moved to the edge of the alley, peering out into the soft, falling mist of Rudenberg’s rooftops. The towers glowed faintly in Ether-light. But none of that warmth reached here.

James’ shoulders slumped. “I trained every day to make my mother proud. To avenge her. She was an Honoured Knight, betrayed and killed by them. They murdered her for what she believed in.”

His voice cracked.

“She died… and I got a weapon I don’t understand. That hurts me. That makes everyone around me afraid.”

The beggar turned.

“But you’re still breathing.”

James looked up, brow furrowed.

“You didn’t let them catch you,” the beggar said firmly. “You didn’t kill anyone in the Archive, even when you had the power to. That means something.”

James looked down at his chest, fingers brushing the dagger. His mother’s blade.

“I wanted to use this to cut them down. One by one.”

The beggar sat beside him, this time without flinching at the frost. “Then use it. Use it with meaning. With fire in your intent, even if ice flows in your veins.”

James didn’t speak.

For a long while, he just listened to the soft sounds of the city shifting—voices, metal, the ripple of far-off Ether conduits.

And then, finally—his hands stopped shaking.

He gripped the dagger tighter, and something like clarity passed across his face.

“I don’t know if I’ll survive this,” he said. “But I know one thing.”

The beggar raised a brow.

“I have to finish what I started. I won’t let this... this plague stop me.”

He stood.

Slowly. Painfully. With breath shallow from exhaustion.

But he stood.

He turned his frost-bitten palm upward, letting the chill hover there.

“They call it a curse.” “But winter always has teeth.”

❄️ Act 7: Return to the House of Winter

The hour was late—Rudenberg cloaked in silence and candlelight, its alleys softened by mist and moon. The whispers about the Archive had quieted into tension just below the surface, like frost beneath fresh snow.

James stood just beyond the beggar’s alley, the man’s patchy cloak resting over his shoulders. The frost in his veins had stilled—for now.

“I need to go,” he said, voice low.

The beggar exhaled through his nose. “To face whatever waits?”

James nodded. “It’s still my home.”

The beggar grunted and handed him the cloak with a flick. “This’ll keep the night from staring too hard.”

James slid it on. It wasn’t elegant, but it blended well with shadow. He hesitated.

“You never told me your name.”

The beggar gave him a sidelong glance. “One day,” he said. “When it’ll mean something.”

And with that, James turned and vanished into the sleeping city.

The walk back to the Rubenblood home was smoother than it had any right to be.

No guards. No torches. Just the occasional wind carving between narrow streets and guttering lamps humming over shuttered stores.

But James didn’t know that something sinister was following him in the shadows.

When he reached the front steps, the air around him warmed faintly, as if the house had noticed him.

It stood exactly as he’d left it—a modest two-story tucked between fading merchant manors. Not grand. Not poor. A house that spoke in quiet routine.

He lifted a hand to knock.

But the door creaked open first.

Arthur stood there, just as he always had—apron slung at his side, eyes calm, the lines on his face drawn in warmth and wear. He didn’t speak.

He only smiled.

James had always loathed that smile—gentle, detached, too still. A smile that had no right to exist the day his mother didn’t come home.

But now?

Now, that smile cracked something inside him.

James collapsed to his knees before he realized he’d moved. A choked breath slipped free, and for the first time in days—weeks, maybe—he cried.

No frost.

Just tears.

Arthur stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him without a word.

Later, they sat by the hearth. James held a chipped mug in shaking fingers, something warm inside burning faintly against the cold inside him. He hadn’t spoken much—just fragments. The Archive. The sarcophagus. The scream of ice.

Arthur never interrupted.

“It’s Abyssal Ice,” James finally said.

Arthur’s eyes didn’t flicker. “I know.”

“You’re not surprised.”

“I’m your father. I’m not surprised by you.”

James swallowed hard. “Everyone else was afraid.”

Arthur’s gaze was firm. “You are not a monster.”

“But I froze an entire chamber—”

“You survived something that should’ve killed you. That’s not the same.”

James looked down into the mug. “They said Mom was cursed once. That she was the Plague too.”

Arthur’s silence deepened.

James pressed, “Was it true?”

“No,” Arthur said simply. “She never bore Abyssal Ice.”

“Then why—?”

Arthur shook his head. “Not tonight. The reason they feared your mother…The truth about her would paint targets on us both.”

James clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling like steam.

Arthur’s voice softened. “You’ll know when you’re ready to hear it.”

Time stretched. The fire dimmed a little, and James let the warmth soak in—not just the flames, but the quiet comfort in knowing someone hadn’t abandoned him.

Arthur stirred beside him. “They’ve missed you.”

James furrowed his brow. “Who?”

“Nolan and Cicily.”

James blinked.

Arthur continued, “They’re still studying at the Academy in Fganud. They sent you a dozen letters this year. Birthdays, festival wishes, even a sketch of the new uniforms.”

James flinched. “I didn’t open them.”

“I know.”

The words weren’t reproachful. Just factual.

“They asked me why you stopped writing back. I told them you were busy training.”

James exhaled, the shame curling inside like ice smoke. “I thought if I pushed everyone away, it’d be easier when—”

“When?”

“When I failed.”

Arthur looked at him, the grief quiet in his eyes. “You didn’t fail. You’re still here. That counts for more than you know.”

They sat in silence again.

❄️ Act 8: Who’s There

The fire burned low, casting flickering shadows across the wooden walls. James and Arthur sat in quiet silence—two figures bound by blood and distance, by words unspoken and those too heavy to voice.

James watched the fire, the tea lukewarm in his hands, the cloak pooled at his feet like the skin of some shadow he’d finally shed.

Then it struck.

A sharp stab—like frost-bitten iron—lanced through his chest.

He doubled forward, breath hitching, the cup shattering at his feet.

His father was beside him instantly.

“James!”

He clutched his ribs, gasping as pain threaded through his arms, spine, and neck. Veins shimmered beneath the surface—pale blue, as if the blood itself had been laced with ice.

His pupils dilated.

His breathing turned ragged.

The frost returned.

It wept from his fingertips. Curled up his arms. Crawled like guilt toward his throat.

Arthur’s eyes tightened. “No…”

He moved fast—too fast for a merchant—and pulled a leather case from the mantel drawer. From inside, he produced a vial: midnight glass, sealed with silver, and glowing faintly from within with golden swirls.

He knelt beside James and tilted his chin up.

“Drink this,” he said. “Now.”

James could barely speak. “What… what is it?”

“Aetherflux Elixir,” Arthur muttered. “Ultra-rare. Unstable. Effective.” His hand shook as he unstopped the vial. “It won’t cure you. But it’ll slow the frostbite. For a time.”

{{ Aetherflux Elixir — A rare alchemical tonic forged from stabilized Ether residue and phoenix root sap. Used to temporarily suppress internal Ether overload symptoms, especially in cursed or overclocked Engine wielders. It halts the body’s rejection just long enough to survive... or escape. }}

James hesitated only a second before drinking. The liquid burned going down—like molten sunlight—but within seconds, the frost at his skin hissed and retreated.

The pain dulled.

He gasped.

Collapsed against the couch.

Arthur stayed knelt beside him, eyes distant.

“I hope I never need this again,” he whispered.

James barely heard. “Again…?”

But his father only said, “It’s the Abyssal Cycle. You overused your core. First comes freezing. Then decay.”

James wiped cold sweat from his brow. “And after that?”

Arthur’s silence spoke louder than any answer.

Then—

A THUD slammed against the front door.

Both men froze.

Another thud—louder this time.

Then a voice, deep and unfamiliar.

***“When ice screams,

silence becomes a weapon”***

END OF CHAPTER 2

—To Be Continued—