The First Cold

He had never known it was within him, had never realized that the cold which had shaped him, the cold which had carried him up from the depths of the ice, the cold which had granted him breath in that abandoned rift where the moon had stood silent and the northern lights had withdrawn, was not merely something that had lingered around him, not simply something that had sculpted him from the outside, but something that had settled deep within his bones, that had wrapped itself around his muscles, that had anchored itself in his heart — a dormant presence, a silent beginning of something far greater, something that had patiently, relentlessly waited until the moment would come when he would no longer walk merely by the strength of his feet, but by the power that had always slept within him.

The city had seen him, the walls had whispered his presence, the echoes had recognized his steps, but he himself — he had not yet begun to understand who he truly was, nor the weight of what walked alongside him.

His steps were wide, his stride steady, his posture calm, as it had always been, but as he moved through the long grey street that morning, flanked by brick walls, rusted iron shutters, and lampposts that groaned beneath their own weight, he felt something imperceptibly shifting in the air — as if the warmth wasn’t simply fading because the sun had disappeared, but because it was he who drove the sun away, because it was he who drew the heat from the space around him, lowering the temperature with each step, not by choice, not by conscious will, but by something far deeper, something he had yet to understand.

And he didn’t notice it immediately, not until he let his hand glide along the iron fence beside him, feeling the metal stiffen beneath his fingertips, feeling how the morning dew that had settled there shattered suddenly into fine, glistening crystals, and it was in that quiet moment that he realized his touch had changed — not cold in the way of a winter morning, not cold like the fleeting chill of wind or rain, but cold in the way of ancient ice locked away for centuries beneath the surface of the world, cold in the way of the void from which he had crawled, cold like the profound silence in which he had been born.

He pulled his hand back, gazed at it as though studying an object that didn’t quite belong to him, as though he had become the owner of something he had never dared to touch before.

His breath left clouds in the air, but the air itself did not feel cold — the cold was not outside of him.

The cold was coming from him.

He continued walking, his fingers faintly trembling, his pace still unshaken, yet deep within him the question clawed and scraped: what was this, what was he doing, and — perhaps the most unsettling question of all — what else would he one day do?

It would not be until later that day that he would truly come to know his power — not through controlled practice, not through careful discovery, but in a moment where there was no time to choose, in a moment where moving was the only answer, when the world unfolded before him like a sudden trial, testing not what he could do, but who he truly was.

In a narrow alley, almost hidden between towering buildings, where the light barely reached the damp concrete, where the walls wept moisture and the air hung heavy, he saw them — three faces that had not been looking for him, but who had found someone else, a boy, not much older than Articmace appeared to be, pressed between the brick wall and their looming threat.

There were no words needed, no explanation, no hesitation to understand what was unfolding — this was power at its ugliest, those who believed they ruled, those who had grown accustomed to forcing their will, those who had perhaps never known what it meant to be resisted.

Articmace felt something stirring within him, something shifting the air around him, slowing the world, thickening the scents of wet stone and asphalt, laced now with a sharpness he had only known from frozen mornings.

He didn’t know why he stepped forward, why he came between them, why he crossed that space — he didn’t know the boy, had no reason to intervene, could have walked past, could have kept his rhythm, his pace, his distance.

But something moved him.

An ancient voice.

Perhaps it was the voice of the ice, perhaps it was the will of the cold, perhaps it was simply a part of himself he had yet to meet.

His footsteps rang out, loud, echoing in the narrow alley, each step falling like a distant drumbeat, a heavy reminder that he had made a choice — not to turn away.

The three of them turned, their gazes sharp, but shallow, their eyes hard, but lacking depth, for they did not know him, did not understand who now stood before them.

They spoke, they taunted, they laughed.

But he did not answer.

He simply felt the air around him growing denser, his breath pulling heavier in his chest, the edges of his sight freezing, his fingers tingling, the ground beneath his feet no longer soft and wet, but slick — gleaming — sealed beneath a thin layer of ice that now spread effortlessly from his shoes, crawling up the walls, softening the sharpest stones, glazing the smallest cracks beneath a glistening skin of frost.

He raised his hand — not in attack, not as a threat, but simply, as a reflex, as a movement that emerged from within him the moment it was called upon.

And the cold — the cold answered.

The air clung to their skin, their breath caught, their feet slipped upon the rapidly thickening ice that now surged forward in waves from where he stood, crawling up the walls, smoothing the sharp edges, wrapping the ground in shimmering white.

The cold enveloped them — not cutting, not painful, but slowly, inevitably, like a memory of something far older than they were, something beyond their control, something that seized them without his hand ever needing to touch them.

He stood and watched.

He felt his heart pounding, not from fear, but from the sudden understanding that this was not an accident, that this was not some outburst.

This — this was what lived within him.

This was what had chosen him.

Or perhaps this was what he had always been.

They stumbled backwards, they fled, leaving the boy behind, still pressed against the cold wall, his eyes wide, his breath shallow, his gaze fixed on the thin frost that still crept outward beneath his feet.

Articmace lowered his hand.

The cold receded slowly, as if it too understood its purpose had been served.

The air loosened, the walls began to drip, the city returned to its familiar rhythm.

He said nothing.

He walked on.

Not faster, not slower.

His shadow stretched long across the melting traces of ice behind him.

And behind him?

Behind him stood eyes that had seen him — eyes that would follow, eyes that would whisper of what they had witnessed, of the cold that had caught them by surprise, of the name they did not yet know, but that would soon spread through the city like a new story, like a new force, like a presence impossible to ignore.

Articmace had felt his first cold.

He had seen his power.

He had, for the first time, understood that he did not walk alone — that the cold walked with him, clung to him, extended through him into the world.

And somewhere, deep inside, he knew:

This is only the beginning.