The Morbid Winter met us not as a passive chill, but as an active, roaring enemy. But this time, I wasn't fighting alone. Theron, or the thing that looked like him, moved through the drifts with a shocking, relentless efficiency.
"We need the hardest deadwood, not the easy kind," I commanded, pulling Elian's thin cloak tighter. The name Alex felt distant; the boy's body and this terrifying new reality were hardening me into a grim fusion of the two lives.
Theron didn't reply. The axe rose and fell, driven by inhuman, unwavering strength. The black mist around him was faint but constant, absorbing the weak light and leaving his edges blurred. He was tireless. The wood split with a wet crack, and he gathered the heavy lengths in an arm that should have been numb with frostbite. The sheer volume of fuel we collected in that first hour eclipsed the work of three days Theron and Elian had managed before.
A terrifying sense of transaction settled over me: Theron had traded his life for this terrible, efficient labor. I hadn't saved him; I had merely rerouted the energy of his death into a tool.
As we moved away from the main treeline, I tested my control, speaking commands first, then simply thinking them.
"Stop." Theron immediately halted, the heavy load of wood settling with a dull thud.
"Pick up that large branch." He obeyed instantly, his movements precise.
The control was absolute, but the feedback was zero. When I commanded him to speak, his mouth opened, but no sound came out. When I mentally demanded, Tell me what you feel, there was only a vast, cold emptiness where Theron's consciousness had been. The only echoes were the ingrained, simple habits of his former life—chopping wood, walking the quickest path.
He's just an engine driven by my will and this death-mist, I realized. He could perform actions, but he couldn't think, feel, or improvise. I was effectively navigating this deadly world with a remote-controlled bulldozer. I had demanded he survive, but I had only reanimated his labor, not his soul.
We needed meat, desperately. The frozen squirrel wouldn't last the night. I led Theron to the river thicket, the scene of yesterday's failure.
"Check the snares," I commanded.
He knelt, and as he worked the snow away from the sinew loop...
Suddenly, Theron pulled back. Caught in the snare was a small, frantic rabbit. It was still breathing, but its movements were sluggish, its fur covered in a thin layer of hoarfrost despite the fact it was underground.
I looked at the creature, then at Theron, then at my own shaking, starved hands.
We returned to the hut before the sun failed, dragging enough wood to feed the fire for a full two days. The hut felt marginally warmer now, less like a tomb.
I set Theron next to the wall, ordering him to remain still. He stood like a statue, the axe resting by his side. The mist around him slowly receded, though a faint darkness still clung to his skin.
As I stripped the rabbit and tossed a piece of sinew into the fire, I noticed the dark spots on my own skin—the livid marks Elian had developed before he died. I was infected. The mist, the plague, was in me. My control over Theron wasn't magic; it was a symptom of my contamination. My body was dying, but my mind had found a way to weaponize the disease.
The fire felt good. The rabbit, roasting on a spit, smelled like salvation. But I couldn't shake the chilling realization that my lifespan was likely measured not in years, but in how long this infected body could hold my mind captive before the plague demanded final payment.
Before resting, I stared at the dark marks on my arm. I tried to command the faint trace of mist clinging to my own skin.
Move.
At first, nothing. I focused harder, channeling the same desperate, protective intensity I had felt for Elian. The rage that had reanimated Theron was the key.
Suddenly, a small, dark wisp peeled away from my forearm. It floated for a moment, an inky thread against the firelight, before dissipating. It was a minuscule, terrifying success.
I could command the mist, the raw energy of the plague, but only when I accessed that profound, emotional extreme. This meant my control was unstable, tied to psychological breaking points. I was an accountant trying to solve a quantum physics problem with sheer, uncontrolled fury.
I ate the rabbit, the first real nourishment in days, watching Theron stand guard—lifeless, cold, and utterly obedient. My sleep would be troubled, but for the first time since my arrival, I knew I would wake up.