The cold came early that year.
By late autumn, the wind already bit through the seams of the cottage, slipping between the stones and under the door no matter how tightly Einar packed the cracks. The animals huddled in the shed for warmth, and even the chickens, dumb as they were, had stopped complaining about being penned inside. Frost kissed the air by morning, and even by midday the sun offered little more than false promises. Breath hung in the air like ghosts, and even the strongest villagers began speaking of winter with reverence, as though it were a predator pacing just outside their doors.
I'd survived blizzards before—both as Alice and in my previous life. I remembered the bitter sting of New England winds, the crunch of ice beneath boots, the smell of car exhaust and road salt. But even at its worst, I could always rely on central heating, electric blankets and emergency services if something went wrong. A downed power line or a burst pipe was a disaster, sure, but help was never more than a phone call away.
Here, if something went wrong, you died.
No one said it aloud, but the village felt it—tight-lipped tension, people shuffling faster through the snow, carrying bundles of firewood like lifelines. Father Aldwin offered more prayers than usual. Einar chopped wood like a man trying to outrun something. Ingrid barely left the hearth, Leofric bundled tight against her breast, her voice raw from singing lullabies just to keep his tiny body calm. We were just starting to feel a sense of normalcy again after his birth, now smoke curled from chimneys like lifelines, and every family counted their days of food like heartbeats.
We were lucky—relatively. Our stores were full. Our roof held. And we had fire.
Or at least… we did.
Until the night the blizzard hit.
It started with a howling wind, fierce enough to shake the door. Snow piled up against the walls so fast I couldn't keep track. By sunset, the world outside had vanished into a wall of white. The kind of storm that could bury a house in hours, the kind old women warned children about in bedtime stories.
Einar had left early that morning to check on a neighbor's injured goat and hadn't returned by nightfall. Ingrid didn't panic—yet—but the tension in her posture said enough. She glanced at the door every few minutes, as if sheer will might summon him through it. She stirred the stew without tasting it. Her songs grew quieter.
And then, somewhere around midnight, the fire went out.
I'd been dozing near the hearth, curled under a sheepskin, keeping vigil like I had for the past several nights. I tried to stay awake, to watch over them, to make sure the fire stayed lit and the baby stayed warm. But exhaustion had other plans. The lullaby of crackling fire, the heavy heat of too many layers, the comforting sound of Ingrid's slow breathing—it pulled me under.
When I woke, there was only silence.
The fire was dead. The ashes barely glowed.
Panic surged like a jolt of ice water.
I scrambled up, teeth already chattering, breath fogging in front of me. The cold pressed against my skin like a weight, sucking the warmth from the room with cruel efficiency. Ingrid stirred under the heavy blankets, holding my baby brother close, her face pale and tight with exhaustion. The air was so still it felt like it had never held heat.
"Go back to sleep," Ingrid whispered, voice weak. "We're all right. Just cold…"
But we weren't all right. Not even close.
I pulled the wool shawl tighter around my shoulders and shuffled to the firewood stack. We still had plenty—dry, split, and stacked neatly by the wall. My hands trembled as I reached out, guiding the driest logs through the air with a flicker of will, arranging them carefully in the hearth the way Einar had shown me—angled for air, bark side down.
Then came the fire starter. Flint and steel—simple, familiar tools. I'd used them a dozen times before. Practiced with Einar. Even taught a younger boy once how to strike cleanly. But tonight, under the weight of cold and fear, even the familiar felt impossibly distant.
It didn't work.
I struck the steel. Sparks danced and died.
Again. Nothing.
My fingers were too numb. My aim was clumsy. My hands barely obeyed. The wind howled outside, rattling the walls, and I could almost hear it laughing. The storm was winning.
I grit my teeth, tried again.
And again.
Still nothing.
Frustration surged. Tears stung my frozen eyes. I couldn't let the cold win—not tonight. Not with a newborn under our roof. Not with Ingrid already half-frozen and Einar still lost to the storm. Not with everything on the verge of slipping through my fingers.
I slammed the steel against the flint harder, faster, until my knuckles ached.
Come on. Come on. COME ON.
My breath hitched. My teeth clenched.
My hands shook, and not just from the cold—something inside me shook. Swelled. Like pressure behind my ribs, like heat rising beneath my skin even as the cold gnawed at me.
"No more games," I whispered. "Light. Now."
Something cracked.
Not the flint—not the wood.
Something inside me.
The air shifted. My vision shimmered, warped—just for a second—and then I felt it.
A command.
I prepared myself to strike again.
And just before the strike
The fire answered.
For the briefest moment, the temperature in the room plunged further, like every shred of warmth had been sucked from the air and funneled into a single point beneath the kindling where I was staring. The cold clutched my ribs, sharp and breathless—and then, something shifted.
The hearth erupted with light.
Not a blaze. Not a bonfire. A sudden, blooming flame that curled and crackled to life across the logs like it had been waiting—coiled in the dark—for permission to exist. It hissed and danced, hungry but controlled, igniting faster than any tinder ever should have. The scent of burning wood filled the room, sharp and clean.
It felt alive.
And I knew, without question, I had called it.
My body sagged.
It hit me all at once—drained, like the energy had been siphoned straight from my bones. I collapsed to my knees, gasping, vision swimming. My arms trembled. My head rang. I'd never felt so emptied out, not even after the longest telekinesis sessions. My whole body felt hollow, like something vital had been poured out of me.
But the fire was lit.
The room warmed.
Ingrid murmured my name, startled by the sudden blaze, but I was too tired to answer. I crawled to the nearest furs, collapsed, and let the warmth seep in. My fingers curled around the edge of a blanket like a lifeline.
My last thought before sleep dragged me under was simple:
I had more than one trick now.
I didn't wake up so much as drift back into consciousness, groggy and sore like I'd run a marathon in my sleep and lost. The hearth fire crackled low and steady beside me, casting flickering shadows against the stone wall, and I was wrapped in every fur we owned like a particularly exhausted burrito. My limbs ached. My head throbbed. My soul, somehow, felt tired. A fatigue that came from the inside out.
Magic, it seemed, had a price. A steep one.
Ingrid had let me sleep, but the moment I stirred, she was there—silent, watchful, a cup of warm broth waiting by the hearth. She didn't say much. Just pressed the cup into my hands and kissed the top of my head. Her eyes lingered on me longer than usual, soft but full of something unreadable. Gratitude. Worry. Wonder.
She didn't ask how the fire had relit itself.
She didn't need to.
Once I had the strength to sit up, I whispered the word like a prayer. "System."
The familiar chime answered immediately, a soft flicker at the edge of my vision. The blue window shimmered into view, and a new entry pulsed faintly at the bottom of my skills list—still fresh, still unfamiliar.
~~~~~~~~~~
[Skill Unlocked: Pyrokinesis]
Rank: F (1%)
You can generate and control flame through focused intent, internal and external energy.
Warning: Overexertion may lead to severe fatigue or loss of consciousness.
Current Capacity: Minor flame. Short duration.
Cost: High (stamina + ambient energy)
~~~~~~~~~~
I stared at it for a long time.
The cost wasn't just stamina—I hadn't imagined the drop in temperature before the fire sparked to life. The room had gotten colder, like the heat had been drained from every corner and gathered into a single point. I'd drawn warmth from the very air itself and poured it into the hearth.
Fire wasn't just another toy. I knew that even before Ingrid said a word. Still, seeing it in hard-coded terms brought the reality into focus. I hadn't lit the fire with skill or precision—I'd lit it with desperation, sheer force of will. If it hadn't worked, I might've passed out right there on the floor. If I'd lost control, I could've burned the whole cottage down.
And yet… the flame had come. It had listened.
Not telekinesis. Not instinct. Intention.
I closed the screen and lay back for a moment, letting the flicker of the fire warm my fingertips. I didn't feel proud. Not exactly. But I felt something else.
Capable.
Later that morning, after I'd eaten and managed to walk without wobbling, Ingrid took me aside. She didn't scold. She didn't raise her voice. She simply sat with me near the hearth—this time blazing safely—and waited until I looked her in the eye.
"I saw," she said gently.
My stomach dropped.
She tucked a strand of my blue hair behind my ear, her fingers lingering on my cheek. "Last night. The fire. I know you lit it."
I didn't deny it. Couldn't. My voice barely rose above a whisper. "I had to. It was so cold, and I couldn't get the fire starter to—"
"I know," she said again. "And I'm not angry. You saved us, Alice."
That hit harder than I expected. Not a reprimand. Not fear. Just… acknowledgement.
"But," she continued, voice soft but firm, "you need to understand what you're playing with. Fire isn't like lifting a stick. It doesn't go back into your hand when you lose focus. If you lose control, you don't get a second chance."
I nodded, guilt twisting in my gut. "I didn't mean to—"
"I know you didn't." She exhaled slowly. "And I know I can't stop you from exploring these… gifts. You're too clever. Too stubborn." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Too much like your father."
"But," she said again, turning serious, "you have to be careful. Not just because people might see—but because it could hurt you. Or someone else. You understand?"
I nodded again. This time, with more certainty.
She pulled me into a hug, pressing my face to her shoulder. "I don't want you to stop, Alice. I just want you to be safe. Promise me that."
I hesitated for only a moment.
"I promise."
And I meant it. With everything in me.
Because fire was power.
And power had consequences.