Chương 2: Witch's Verdict

Jack's legs shook like dry twigs. He had managed to swing his feet over the edge of the bed, but the moment he put even a fraction of his weight onto the freezing floor, his knees buckled. He collapsed forward, barely catching himself on the rickety wooden headboard. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. The physical weakness of this body was staggering. In his past life, Jack had taken simple things like walking across a room for granted. Here, even standing up felt like trying to lift a mountain.

He slowly hauled himself back onto the mattress, pulling the stiff, half-frozen blanket over his shivering chest. His lungs burned, a deep, icy ache that seemed to radiate directly from the tiny, stagnant spark in his chest—his Grey Core. Before he could attempt to focus on the core again, the heavy oak door of his bedchamber flew open with a loud bang. Karen rushed in, practically dragging a stooped, elderly woman behind her.

"I found her, My Lord!" Karen panted, her face even redder than before.

"Old Martha was just about to pack her herbs into her handcart. I told her she couldn't leave, not while you were in this state." The old woman grunted, shaking Karen's hand off her arm with surprising strength. Old Martha was the village hedge-witch, though she looked more like a weathered tree root than a magic user. She was short, bent at the waist, and wrapped in a heavy, grease-stained wool coat that smelled strongly of crushed pine needles, damp earth, and stale vinegar.

Her hair was a wild, grey bird's nest, and her small, dark eyes looked at Jack with deep, unimpressed cynicism.

"I have my own handcart to pack, girl," Martha said.

"If the storm blocks the pass, we all freeze. Sick lord or healthy lord, the cold doesn't care about a fancy title."

"Martha, please!" Karen begged, her hands clasped together.

"Look at him. He woke up, but he's as pale as a sheet. He's coughing up blood." Martha sighed, and shuffled over to the side of the bed. She didn't bow. She didn't show any of the deference a noble might expect. Instead, she roughly grabbed Jack's thin wrist, her fingers cold and calloused. Jack remained silent, observing her. He had the memories of the old John Frost-Grip, so he knew Martha was the closest thing this desolate valley had to a doctor.

The actual castle physician had fled south two years ago, right after the coal mines collapsed and the family's coin ran dry. Martha pressed her thumb firmly against the side of Jack's jaw, forcing his mouth open.

"Tongue out," she muttered. Jack complied. She grunted, then leaned in close, pressing her ear directly against his chest. Jack held his breath, trying to keep his breathing as steady as possible. Beneath his ribs, the Grey Core stirred. It felt incredibly unnatural, like a small block of dry ice lodged in his chest. Martha listened for a long moment, her brow furrowing. When she finally sat back, her expression was grim.

"Well?" Karen asked, hovering anxiously behind her.

"You have the lungs of a ninety-year-old miner, boy-lord," Martha said bluntly, wiping her hands on her apron.

"They're stiff, scarred, and wet. One more hard frost, and you'll be buried right beside your ancestors in the yard." Karen let out a small, strangled squeak, her hand flying to her mouth.

"No… there must be something. A tea? An elixir?"

"I'm an herbalist, Karen, not a miracle worker," Martha snapped. She reached into a deep canvas bag slung over her shoulder and pulled out a small stone mortar and pestle, along with several dried, greyish leaves.

"I can make a paste to ease the rattling in his chest. But it's just grease for a squeaking wheel. It won't fix the axle." As Martha began grinding the leaves, a sharp, pungent odor of sulfur and bitter pine filled the small area around the bed. Jack watched her hands work. But as he did, he felt a sudden, sharp tug in his chest. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The Grey Core was reacting.

The core was a passive sponge for death mana, and Old Martha, despite her lack of formal training, possessed the natural vitality of someone who worked with living plants and earth. To the stagnant, cold death energy in Jack's chest, her presence was like a sudden gust of wind over a smoldering coal. The spark in his chest flared. Jack felt a wave of numbing, ancient cold ripple outward from his heart, spreading through his veins.

It didn't hurt, but he watched in horror as the thin layer of frost on the cracked windowpane behind Martha began to change. The frost wasn't just spreading anymore. It was crawling in sharp, unnatural, geometric patterns, forming rigid lines like skeletal fingers stretching across the glass. The air in the immediate corner of the room grew noticeably colder, the moisture in Jack's breath freezing instantly into tiny, falling specks of ice. Martha stopped grinding. Her nose twitched.

She slowly turned her head, her dark, cynical eyes scanning the room. She couldn't see mana, but she had lived in the wilds long enough to feel when the natural balance of a room shifted. Her gaze drifted toward the window, then slowly began to turn back toward Jack. If she realized he was channeling death magic, the rumors would spread instantly. The superstitious villagers were already terrified and looking for any excuse to flee.

If they thought their lord was a dark mage, they would abandon the valley before the sun set. Jack needed a distraction. Now. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened his mouth, and forced the most dramatic, violent, and loud coughing fit he could muster.

"Cough! COUGH!" He arched his back, flailing his thin arms wildly. He made sure his left hand swung out, deliberately striking the small, rickety three-legged stool beside the bed. The stool tipped over with a loud crash. The empty clay bowl Karen had brought earlier went flying, shattering into a dozen pieces against the hard stone floor.

"My Lord!" Karen shrieked, instantly panicking. She threw herself toward the bed, grabbing Jack's shoulders as he continued to fake-cough, making his body shake as realistically as possible.

"Martha, help him! He's choking!" Martha was caught completely off guard. She dropped her pestle, stepping back as Karen hovered over Jack, frantically patting his back and weeping.

"Move aside, girl!" Martha barked, pushing Karen out of the way. She grabbed a small wooden cup of water from her bag and forced it against Jack's lips.

"Drink! Swallow it, you stubborn boy!" Jack choked down a mouthful of the cold water, slowly letting his feigned spasm subside. He lay back against the pillows, panting heavily, his face flushed red from the sheer physical exertion of the act. His eyes darted toward the window. The distraction had worked. The sudden commotion had broken his focus, causing the Grey Core to settle back into its dormant state.

The geometric frost on the glass remained, but without the active flow of mana, it looked like nothing more than a strange quirk of the freezing weather. Martha stood over him, shaking her head in irritation as she looked at the shattered pieces of the clay bowl on the floor.

"Clumsy," she grumbled, bending down to pick up her mortar.

"A sick noble is a fragile thing. You're lucky you didn't crack your own skull on the bedpost."

"I… I apologize," Jack whispered, his throat genuinely raw now.

"My hand… slipped."

"Just keep your hands to yourself," Martha muttered. She finished grinding the herbs, producing a small jar filled with a dark, thick, foul-smelling muck. She slapped a wooden lid onto the jar and set it on the headboard of the bed, well out of reach of his flailing arms.

"Eat a spoonful of that every morning," she instructed.

"It will taste like rotten cabbage, and it will burn your throat. But it will keep your lungs from gluing themselves shut for a few more days."

"Thank you, Martha," Jack said quietly. Martha slung her bag back over her shoulder. She looked at him, her expression softening just a fraction, though her voice remained sharp.

"Don't thank me yet. That paste only buys you time. To actually clear those lungs of yours, I need Frost-Cap mushrooms." Jack's ears perked up.

"Frost-Caps?"

"Aye," Martha said, walking toward the door.

"They only grow in the deep, dark crevasses at the edge of the northern cliffs. They need the absolute cold of the depths to sprout. But you can't get them. The paths are covered in sheer ice, and the wind up there will freeze a man's blood in minutes. Trying to climb up there in the dead of winter is just a slow way to commit suicide." She paused at the threshold, looking back at the drafty, ruined room.

"Keep him warm, Karen," Martha warned.

"If he gets another chill, not even my entire bag of herbs will save him." With that, the old hedge-witch turned and shuffled out of the room, her boots clicking softly against the stone. Karen immediately set to work, her hands shaking as she tried to sweep up the broken pieces of the clay bowl.

"I'll… I'll go down to the courtyard and see if I can find any scrap of dry wood, Lord Jack. Even if it's just an old broken crate. We have to keep this room warm."

"Do what you can, Karen," Jack said. Once she had closed the door behind her, leaving him in the heavy silence of the chamber, Jack reached out and took the small jar of Martha's medicine. He opened the lid. The smell was incredibly strong, but he took a small smear on his finger and swallowed it. It tasted vile, like burnt and dirt, but as it slid down his throat, he felt his airways open slightly. The rattling in his chest eased. He turned his gaze toward the frost-covered window. Frost-Cap mushrooms.

Martha said no human could climb those icy, lethal cliffs in the dead of winter. The wind was too cold, the paths too slippery, and the drop too high. Jack smiled faintly, a cold, determined expression crossing his pale face. Humans couldn't climb them. But skeletons didn't have lungs to freeze. They didn't have blood to run cold. And they didn't care about a thousand-foot drop. He just needed to get down to that crypt.