Chapter 12: Frost Cap-Expedition

The northern ravine was a place where living things went to die.

It was a massive drop of rocks and smooth ice that bordered the edge of the Frost-Grip estate. The wind whistling through the deep chasm was so fierce and cold that it could freeze a man’s fingers in a matter of minutes. No sane person would dare approach the edge during a winter night, let alone try to climb down into the pitch-black depths.

But Jack was not sending a person.

Jack sat in his high-backed chair in his bedchamber, a thick wool blanket draped over his knees. Outside his locked door, Karen was quietly sitting in the hallway with a lantern, acting as his dedicated lookout so he wouldn’t be disturbed.

He closed his eyes, sinking his mind deep into the grey threads connected to his soul. He bypassed the new recruits clearing the courtyard and focused his entire will on his two most experienced workers: Bones and Dusty.

Through their empty eye sockets, Jack looked down into the terrifying, howling abyss of the ravine.

“Alright,” Jack commanded mentally. “Down we go. Find the glowing blue mushrooms.”

Bones stepped over the edge of the cliff first.

If Jack had been in his own human body, his heart would have been hammering with pure terror. But through the skeletons, there was no fear, no adrenaline, and no biting cold. There was only the objective.

The skeleton didn’t look for a gentle slope or a safe foothold. Bones simply raised his massive right hand and slammed it directly into the sheet of ice covering the cliff face.

CRACK.

His bony fingers punched straight through the hard ice, sinking deep into a narrow crack in the stone beneath. A human climber would have broken every bone in their hand attempting such a strike, but the magically reinforced skeleton didn’t even flinch.

Bones lowered his frame, kicking his toes into the ice to secure his footing, and began to descend. Dusty followed right behind him, moving with a jerky but incredibly efficient rhythm.

The descent was a masterclass in undead logistics. Skeletons did not have muscles that cramped from exhaustion. They did not have lungs either. When a gust of wind slammed against the cliff, it simply howled right through their empty rib-cages, finding no resistance to blow them off the wall.

They climbed down for nearly an hour, descending deeper into the darkest and the coldest part of the chasm where the sunlight never reached.

Suddenly, through Dusty’s perspective, Jack saw a faint light.

Tucked deep inside a narrow, jagged crevasse in the rock wall, a small cluster of pale blue lights was glowing softly in the dark.

“Stop,” Jack ordered.

Bones anchored himself to the cliff, while Dusty carefully reached his crooked neck into the crevasse. There, growing out of the frozen, mineral-rich stone, were five small mushrooms. Their caps were a brilliant, translucent blue, glowing with a soft, natural magic.

These were the Frost-Caps Old Martha had spoken of.

Dusty reached out with careful and precise movements. He plucked the mushrooms from the stone, being careful not to crush the delicate caps, and placed them into a small leather pouch tied around his ribs.

“Got them,” Jack whispered in his bedroom, a wave of profound relief washing over him. “Climb back up. Slowly.”

By the time the sun began to rise, casting a pale light across the snow, the leather pouch was already on Jack’s writing desk.

Later that morning, the village was alive with a strange, new energy.

Jack walked down the path, leaning on his brass-headed cane. As he passed the small timber houses, he could hear the crackle of coal fires from within. The sharp smell of burning coal filled the air. A few villagers were outside, shoveling snow from their walkways. When they saw Jack, they stopped what they were doing and offered him deep, respectful bows.

He was no longer just the sickly boy in the castle. He was the lord who had delivered them life.

Jack made his way to the low stone building of the blacksmith’s shop.

Barnaby’s forge was roaring. The heat spilling out of the open doors was intense, melting the snow on the street for several yards around the shop.

“Lord Jack,” Barnaby greeted, setting his iron hammer down on the anvil. The blacksmith was covered in sweat and soot, looking exhausted but incredibly happy. “To what do I owe the visit? If you need those carriage bands, I already have three of them cooling in the trough.”

“The bands are excellent, Barnaby, but I need something else today,” Jack said, stepping into the warm shop. He pulled a rolled-up piece of parchment from his coat and laid it flat on a wooden workbench.

Barnaby walked over, wiping his hands on his leather apron, and looked at the charcoal drawings Jack had sketched the night before.

“These look like iron brackets,” Barnaby noted, tracing the right-angled shapes with his soot-stained finger. “And long, reinforced iron rods. What are you building, My Lord?”

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“A structure for the inner courtyard,” Jack replied smoothly. “It needs to hold frames of glass and wood. Can you cast these?”

“Easily,” Barnaby grunted. “With this high-grade coal you provided, melting the scrap iron for these will be child’s play. I can have them done in two days.”

“Good,” Jack said. He tapped his finger on a second, separate drawing at the bottom of the parchment. “But I also need this. And I need this done perfectly.”

Barnaby squinted at the second drawing. He frowned, his eyebrows pulling together in deep confusion.

It was a drawing of a helmet. But it wasn’t a standard, open-faced guard’s helm. It was a massive, fully enclosing cylinder of iron—a bucket helm. The design showed metal plating that would cover the entire head and neck, with only a very narrow, dark slit left open for the eyes. Next to the helmet was a sketch of a chain mail hauberk, designed to hang all the way down to the knees, complete with leather gloves attached to the sleeves.

“Armor?” Barnaby asked, looking up at Jack. “My Lord, this is heavy infantry gear. And it’s completely sealed. A man wearing this bucket helm would barely be able to see his own feet, let alone breathe properly. If he fights in this, he’ll sweat to death in.”

Jack looked directly into the blacksmith’s eyes, his expression entirely flat.

“My men do not sweat, Barnaby.”