Chương 10: Warmth

The afternoon sky was still gray, but for the first time in weeks, the howling wind did not bite straight through the bone. Jack stood in the lower cellars of the castle, his cane resting firmly on the floor. Beside him stood Karen, holding a flickering oil lamp, and Giles, who looked confused and slightly impatient. They were standing in front of an iron-reinforced oak door that led to the old, unused sub-basements.

"I don't understand, My Lord," Giles said, his thick brow furrowed.

"You asked me to bring the men to haul fuel. But this is the old root cellar. It's been empty since your father's time."

"It was closed, Giles," Jack corrected him, his voice calm and steady.

"Not empty." Jack reached into his wool cloak and pulled out a large, rusted iron key he had salvaged from his writing desk. He slid it into the lock of the door and turned it. With a loud clank, the bolt gave way. Jack pushed the door open. Karen raised her oil lamp, casting a warm yellow light into the dark room. Giles stopped breathing. Stacked neatly against the back wall of the cellar were over fifty bulging burlap sacks.

Some of them were slightly open at the top, revealing the gleaming, glassy black rocks inside. The pile was massive, representing hundreds of hours of backbreaking labor. In reality, it was the result of a single morning of tireless, uninterrupted mining by Rusty, Dusty, and Bones, who had hauled it up through the connected crypt tunnels and quietly retreated just an hour prior.

"By the gods," Giles whispered, taking a slow step into the room. He reached out with a trembling hand and picked up a lump of the dark rock.

"This is... this is pure high-grade coal. There must be two tons of it here."

"Where did this come from?" Karen gasped, her eyes wide as she looked from the sacks to Jack.

"The Frost-Grip family has always maintained a private, deep reserve for absolute emergencies," Jack lied smoothly, keeping his expression entirely flat.

"Sealed by my grandfather, kept secret to prevent it from being sold off during the lean years. I decided it is finally time to open the vault." Giles turned to look at the sickly young lord. The skepticism that usually lived in the big miner's eyes completely melted away, replaced by a profound, overwhelming gratitude. He didn't question how a sickly boy had dragged fifty heavy sacks to the front of the cellar. He didn't care. He was holding life in his hands.

"You kept your word," Giles said, his deep voice cracking slightly. He bowed his head, a gesture of genuine respect.

"You saved us, Lord Jack."

"Don't thank me yet. The village is still freezing," Jack said, tapping his cane against the stone.

"Get your men, Giles. Load the sleds. I want a sack of coal delivered to every single hearth in the valley before the sun goes down." Within the hour, the castle courtyard was a flurry of frantic activity. The villagers who had been preparing to flee into the frozen wilderness that morning were now weeping with joy as they loaded the sacks onto their wooden handcarts and sleds. Old Miller's wife fell to her knees in the snow, clutching a piece of the black coal to her chest as if it were a lump of gold.

The terror that had gripped the fief for weeks evaporated, replaced by the frantic energy of survival. Jack watched from the courtyard steps, the cold air no longer bothering his lungs as much.

"Come inside, My Lord," Karen urged, gently tugging at his sleeve. Her face was bright, a smile breaking through her usual anxious expression.

"The men have already carried three sacks up to the Great Hall. I am going to light the main hearth." When Jack walked into the Great Hall, the transformation was already beginning. For the first time all winter, the cavernous stone fireplace was roaring. This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. The heat radiating from the hearth was magnificent. It pushed back the freezing air of the hall, creating a massive wave of warmth.

Jack hobbled over to his high-backed wooden chair, which had been moved closer to the fire. He sat down, closing his eyes as the intense heat washed over his face. The warmth seeped through his cloak, soaking into his stiff joints and easing the ache in his bones. All around the hall, the sound of dripping water began to echo. The thick layers of frost that had covered the ancient family tapestries on the walls were melting, turning into small puddles on the floor. The castle was finally thawing out.

By early evening, the Great Hall was full. Jack had invited the villagers who lived closest to the castle to share the evening meal. Karen, with the help of Old Miller's wife and few more women from nearby households, had used the new fire to boil a massive iron cauldron of thick porridge made from the wheat and dried peas purchased from Merchant Gary. The room was filled with the sounds of clinking wooden spoons, chattering, and sudden bursts of laughter.

Children sat cross-legged on the warm floor directly in front of the hearth, their faces glowing from the heat of the fire, eating their hot porridge with eager, messy bites. There was no talk of the southern pass. There was no talk of starvation. For tonight, the difficulty of life had been paused. Jack sat quietly in his chair, a bowl of hot porridge resting on his lap. He ate slowly, watching his people. He had been a middle manager in his past life, used to seeing numbers on a spreadsheet.

But seeing the color return to the cheeks of the starving children, and watching the exhausted parents finally relax their shoulders, brought a strange satisfaction to his chest that had nothing to do with magic. He had earned this warmth. The next morning, the sky was clear. The pale winter sun reflected brightly off the fresh snow, making the valley look almost peaceful. Jack decided to take a walk. He wanted to see the village with his own eyes.

He moved slower than a healthy man, still leaning heavily on his brass-headed cane, but his steps were much steadier than they had been two days ago. As he walked down the winding mountain path, he looked out over the rooftops of the small timber houses. Every single stone chimney in the village was puffing a steady smoke into the sky. The smell of burning coal filled the crisp air—a sharp, industrious scent that signaled life and survival.

He made his way toward the edge of the village, stopping in front of the low stone building with the massive chimney. Barnaby the Blacksmith was hard at work. The wooden double doors of the forge were thrown wide open. Inside, the great stone hearth was blazing, casting a brilliant orange glow against the walls. The rhythmic, ringing sound of a heavy iron hammer striking an anvil echoed through the street— CLANG, CLANG, CLANG!

Outside the shop, leaning against the exterior stone wall, a group of four shivering local children sat on a wooden bench. They weren't crying from the cold today. They were laughing, holding small wooden sticks with chunks of turnip skewered on the ends, roasting them against the radiant heat of the forge's bricks. The ringing of the hammer stopped. Barnaby stepped out of the doors holding a pair of heavy iron tongs in one hand. The man was no longer wearing his blanket.

In fact, despite the freezing weather outside, he was wearing a leather apron over a thin, sweat-soaked linen shirt. His face and arms were covered in black soot, and a wide grin was visible beneath his thick beard. He saw Jack standing in the snow and paused. Barnaby wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He looked at the young, frail lord leaning on his cane. Then, the blacksmith looked up at the sky, and finally back to Jack. Barnaby knew coal.

He knew what a fifty-year-old rock looked like when it was pulled from a dusty, forgotten vault, and he knew what fresh, newly-broken high grade coal looked like. The coal Jack had delivered was fresh. It hadn't been sitting in a cellar for half a century. But as Barnaby looked at the laughing children roasting turnips against his wall, he realized that some secrets were better left alone. The blacksmith took a slow, deliberate step forward. He didn't bow like a frightened peasant.

Instead, he gave Jack a deep, respectful, and highly knowing nod.

"I don't know where a sickly boy-lord suddenly finds a mountain of fresh high-grade coal, Lord Jack," Barnaby spoke quietly, his deep voice carrying over the crackle of the fire.

"But the heat is real. And the kids aren't coughing today." Jack simply smiled.

"The valley is warm, Barnaby. That is all that matters."

"Aye. That it is," Barnaby said, gripping his iron tongs tightly. He looked Jack right in the eyes, his voice turning deadly serious.

"If you ever need iron worked... if you need nails, or bands, or steel... my hammer is yours. You have my word."

"I will hold you to that, Barnaby," Jack said, tapping his cane against the packed snow.

"Because I have a feeling we are going to need a lot of iron very soon." Jack turned and began the slow walk back up the mountain toward his castle. He had secured fuel, food, and the loyalty of his people. But as he listened to the ringing of the blacksmith's hammer fade behind him, a sobering thought crossed his mind. Barnaby had let the mystery slide for today, but as the valley grew, more and more people would start asking questions.

He would need a permanent, foolproof way to hide his undead workers before someone decided to look too closely at the shadows.