Fear does strange things. Inaction causes more harm than good. Yet as rational as Silas was, the fear that chilled his heart, his very being, caused him to stay in that position. The death of a stranger, one whose demise had inadvertently saved him, haunted him now. But strangely, it wasn’t the fear that snapped him from his spiraling thoughts—it was the cold.
Not the fear of cold, but the deep, biting cold of the night’s freezing embrace. His limbs trembled, his breath curled in visible wisps before his face. Survival first, he thought to himself. There would be time to grieve later for this poor soul.
He knew well that hypothermia set in stages. First, the body shivered, trying to generate heat. Then, as the core temperature dropped further, blood would pull away from the extremities to protect vital organs. If left unchecked, the mind would fog, muscles would weaken, and then, paradoxically, the body would feel warmth in its final moments. He had read about paradoxical undressing before—a grim phenomenon where victims of extreme cold tear away their clothing, thinking they are burning up when in reality, their bodies are shutting down.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Silas wasn’t going to let that happen.
Reaching out from under the bed, he dragged the old, mildewed sheet toward him, careful not to disturb the fragile silence. The fabric was damp, reeking of age and decay, but it was better than nothing. He crawled toward the back corner of the bed, pressing himself against the weathered timbers of the wall.
A hole in the aged wood let in the faintest sliver of light, illuminating dust that drifted lazily in the air. He pulled the sheet tightly around his smaller frame, his fingers still tingling with the creeping chill. His breaths were shallow, controlled.
Then, cautiously, he turned his attention to the strange book he had snatched in his frantic escape. Its cover, aged and brittle, felt like dried leather beneath his fingertips. The title had been clear before, The Choosing of the Seed, but now as he flipped it open, his stomach twisted in frustration.
The better part of the book disintegrated before his eyes.
The moment air touched its fragile pages, they crumbled into dust, their ancient ink vanishing like whispers in the dark. Silas cursed under his breath, his hands tightening around the few remaining pages that stubbornly held their form. His only clue—his only lead—had all but vanished.
He stared at the few surviving pages, the text still foreign yet strangely readable. A shiver coursed through him, though whether from the cold or the ominous realization that this book held knowledge meant for him, he did not know.
He took a breath, steadying himself.
And then, he began to read.