Chapter 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 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, even standing up felt like trying to lift a mountain.

He slowly hauled himself back onto the mattress, pulling the stiff blanket over his shivering chest. His lungs burned, an icy ache that seemed to radiate directly from the tiny, stagnant spark in his chest.

Before he could attempt to focus on the core again, the 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. Even though she was not able to use magic for some reason, or atleast from what Jack remembered. The actual castle healer had fled south 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.”

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, I haven’t even been able to use magic for years now” 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.

If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it’s taken without permission from the author. Report it.

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 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.