The gnawing hunger was finally silenced, replaced by a dull, pleasant warmth that radiated from my stomach. The heat of the fire, the taste of roasted meat—they were miracles achieved by my terrifying new servant. I didn't sleep deeply; every hour, I forced my eyes open, checking the small flame and the still, upright figure of Theron. He was the ultimate guard, requiring no sleep, no food, and feeling no cold.
The dark spots on my arm, the signs of the Rot, were still there. They didn't feel worse, but they didn't feel better either. The meager success of commanding the mist to twitch was a psychological lifesaver—it proved my control wasn't a one-time fluke. The trick was finding a way to access that furious, desperate emotion without suffering a nervous breakdown. I was a man who used spreadsheets to manage chaos, not primal rage.
I began to experiment with my mental commands in the dark.
"Theron, move the stool." The stool scraped across the earthen floor and stopped at the foot of my cot. Precise.
"Theron, pour water from the bucket into the cup." His movements were fluid, perfect, the cup not shaking at all. But when I mentally demanded, Do you like the water?, there was only the blank, vast emptiness.
I realized his efficiency was a mirror of my clarity. Complex, vague, or emotional commands resulted in nothing. Simple, physical, practical instructions were executed perfectly. He was a machine, his operating system the ingrained muscle memory of his former life, and my will the sole input. He could perform any task his living body could have, but with tireless, inhuman strength. He was an ultimate survival tool in a world defined by the lack of human energy.
The Reckoning of the Village
With the fire roaring and the sun rising, the cold gray light revealing a world blanketed in fresh snow, I faced the next terrifying reality: Oakhaven was a graveyard.
"Theron. Stand by the door."
I pulled on Elian's scratchy woolen tunic and heavy cloak. I had to know how many. I had to know what was waiting for me. I stepped out into the crushing cold.
The village was dead, I went to Maud the Herbalist's shack. She and Oswin lay exactly as I had seen them, bodies rigid and marked with the livid spots. I didn't need to touch them to know they were cold. They were dead.
I checked three more homes—the cooper, Ceol, and the two children. All were still, the doors left ajar by fleeing, terrified neighbors. In total, I counted seven bodies remaining in the village. The rest had either died and been completely consumed by the Rot, or, more likely, had fled in a panic, carrying the plague with them down the road to the east.
A dreadful thought settled in my chest, heavy as the wood we'd split: the plague wasn't done. It had merely left the scene. I was infected. I had a corpse-servant. I was sitting on a pile of abandoned resources in a ghost town.
My adult mind, the accountant's mind, took over, coldly assessing the situation:
Threat: Morbid Winter (Severe) and The Rot/Plague (Active/Contained in me).
Asset 1: Theron (High-Efficiency Labor). No need for food, rest, or heat. Ideal for wood-cutting, hunting, heavy lifting, and as a silent, intimidating guard.
Asset 2: Abandoned Village Resources. Hides, tools, stored grains, and—crucially—Maud's herbs and remedies, now unprotected.
Vulnerability: My own infected body. The duration of my control is dependent on the Rot inside me not reaching a fatal stage, or my ability to access extreme emotion to reinforce the connection.
The rage for Elian was a limited fuel. The only way to live was to become relentlessly practical. I needed to scavenge everything that could keep me alive.
I returned to my hut.
"Theron," I commanded, my voice flat, "follow me. We are going to Maud's house. Collect everything that smells like spice, dried flower, or root. Take the sack hanging by the door. We are going to empty this village."
The Morbid Winter howled, but for the first time, I felt a terrifying, chilling certainty: I was no longer a victim of the medieval world. I was a survivor, and my survival was going to be bought with the labor of the dead.