Chương 36: Remembrance

For two weeks, the men had swung pickaxes into the earth while Jack stayed awake every single night, commanding his undead workers to haul logs and plant them into the ground. Now, a deep, wide trench entirely surrounded the village. Behind the trench was now a wall of timber. The only way inside was over the fixed wooden ramp and through the iron-reinforced gate that Barnaby, Giles and their men had built. The defenses were as perfect as humanly and magically possible.

Because of this, Jack declared a full day of rest. It was the third week since the true winter freeze had begun, and it marked a very specific day on the calendar. It was the anniversary of the late Lord Frost-Grip's passing. The original Jack's father. Because the village was finally safe and the people were no longer on the absolute brink of starvation, they wanted to pay their respects properly. Around noon, the villagers left their cabins and walked up the cleared mountain path to the castle.

They filed into the Great Hall. The room was wonderfully warm. Jack sat in his high-backed chair at the head of the room. He felt a deep, lingering exhaustion in his bones from his flipped sleep schedule, but he kept his posture perfectly straight. He leaned both hands on his cane and watched his people. The contrast between today and the meeting they held just a few weeks ago was startling. Back then, the villagers had been shivering, desperate, and ready to abandon the fief. Today, they wore clean clothes.

Their faces, while still worn from hard labor, had color in their cheeks. The horrific coughing that used to echo through the crowds was entirely gone. Karen and a few of the older women had spent the morning cooking. They handed out wooden bowls filled with hot porridge, sweetened with a few precious dried apples they had saved from the autumn harvest. When everyone had a bowl, Old Miller stepped forward into the center of the hall. He took off his wool cap and cleared his throat. The room went perfectly silent.

"Two years ago today, the winter took our lord," Old Miller began.

"Lord Frost-Grip was a kind man. He did not tax us when the crops failed, and he shared his own castle's firewood when the mine collapsed. He did everything a man could do to keep us alive." A murmur of respectful agreement rippled through the villagers.

"But the north is cruel," Old Miller continued, looking down at his cap.

"And kindness alone does not light a fire. When he passed, we thought the fief was truly finished. Then, the mages from the Holy Church did not come to aid us the next year. And when Lord Jack fell extremely ill that same winter, we thought we were just waiting for the snow to bury us." Old Miller looked up. He turned his weathered face directly toward Jack.

"Then, his son took the seat," Old Miller said, his eyes shining with profound respect.

"Lord Jack. You brought the coal from the dead earth. You gave us the iron tools, the warm cabins, and the wall that will keep the beasts from our doors. Your father gave us his kindness. You gave us our lives." Old Miller raised his wooden bowl of porridge high into the air.

"To the late Lord Frost-Grip," Old Miller called out loudly.

"May he rest in the warm halls of the gods. And to Lord Jack. May his fire never go out."

"To Lord Jack!" the villagers echoed in unison, raising their bowls. Jack nodded slowly, acknowledging the toast. Internally, he felt a strange sense of detachment. He was a transmigrator. The man they were mourning was not his actual father, and the memories he had of the late lord felt like watching a play from a distance. But looking at the genuine loyalty in the faces of the men and the smiling children, Jack felt a real, undeniable responsibility to them. He would not let them die.

After the meal finished and the villagers began the walk back down to the safety of the enclosed settlement, the castle grew quiet again. Karen approached Jack's chair. She was holding a ring of keys.

"Lord Jack," Karen said softly.

"It is time. I have the keys to the master suite." Jack nodded and stood up, leaning on his cane. When the original Jack's father had died of a sudden winter fever two years ago, the old master bedroom had been locked. It was a tradition in the north to leave a deceased family member's room untouched for exactly one year, allowing their spirit to properly depart the world before the living reclaimed the space.

But due to extreme illness last year, original Jack couldn't clean his father's room and was left empty up until now. Jack followed Karen up to the castle's second floor. They reached a door at the very end of the hall. Karen inserted a long key into the lock. It turned with a loud click. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. She pushed the door open. The air inside was incredibly stale. Jack stepped inside. The room was spacious, much larger than his current bedroom.

The furniture was covered in large white sheets to protect it from dust.

"It feels exactly the same," Karen whispered, her eyes turning a bit glassy as she looked around.

"I remember bringing him his tea right before the fever took him."

"We should clean it," Jack said simply, wanting to break her melancholy.

"Open the windows just a crack. Let the draft pull the old air out." Karen quickly nodded, grateful for the distraction. She immediately went to work. She pulled the large white sheets off the wooden wardrobe and the canopy bed, folding them neatly. Jack walked over to the fireplace and picked up a small straw broom leaning against the stone hearth. He began sweeping the accumulated dust from the floorboards. As they worked in the quiet room, Karen began to talk.

"Your father was a very gentle man, Lord Jack," Karen said, dusting the top of the wooden wardrobe with a rag. Jack paused his sweeping. The inherited memories of the original John Frost-Grip stirred in his mind, bringing back the gloomy final years of his father's life.

"He didn't have much talent in magic," Jack noted quietly.

"He couldn't get past the Iron Core."

"No, he couldn't," Karen agreed, looking back at him with a sad smile.

"And to protect this whole place… when all the servants and people in the castle started leaving one by one due to the financial conditions, it broke him. He fell into a deep depression, and his health just kept worsening after your mother's death." Karen walked over to the bed and began straightening the old mattress.

"It is a well-known secret among the older servants," Karen continued, lowering her voice out of habit.

"The Frost-Grip line used to be something entirely different, long ago. Something darker. But praise the gods, your grandfather married a woman from the far south. Your grandmother. Her blood came from completely outside the Frost-Grip Family." Jack leaned on his cane, listening carefully.

"It diluted the bloodline, the old women used to say," Karen said with a soft sigh.

"Thanks to her southern blood, your father was born an earth mage instead of a dark practitioner." Karen paused, looking over at Jack with a small, knowing smile. She was, after all, the one organizing the schedules and covering the tracks for his skeletal Night Shift.

"They used to say the Grey Arts were a curse that would corrupt the soul. But seeing how you use your… retainers… to build our walls and keep the village warm, I know those old superstitions were wrong. You are a good lord, Jack." Jack offered a tight, polite smile.

"We use the tools we are given."

"I will go fetch some hot water and soap for the floorboards," Karen said, picking up her dusting rags.

"I will be right back, My Lord." Karen stepped out of the room, leaving the door open. Jack turned back to the fireplace. He began sweeping the dust away from the stone hearth again. As he dragged the straw broom across the floor, the bristles caught on the edge of a wooden plank. Jack looked down. One of the floorboards, directly to the right of the stone hearth, was slightly raised. He tapped the board with his cane. Thwack. He tapped the board right next to it. Thud. The first board sounded completely hollow.

Jack frowned. He looked at the open doorway to make sure Karen wasn't returning yet. He knelt down carefully. He wedged his fingers under the raised edge of the floorboard and pulled upward. The old iron nails had been deliberately filed down. The short piece of wood popped out easily, revealing a dark, square compartment hidden beneath the floor. Inside the compartment was an item wrapped carefully in oiled leather. Jack reached in and pulled it out. The oiled leather was designed to keep moisture away.

He unwrapped the cords and pulled the leather back. It was a book. It was bound in worn animal hide. The pages were made of high-quality parchment. There was no title on the cover, just a single word pressed deeply into the center of the binding. Inheritance. Jack opened the front cover. The handwriting inside was sharp, precise, and written in dark ink that had faded slightly over time. If you are reading this, then you are a Frost-Grip. And you have found the secret that I was too weak to destroy.

— Alistair Frost-Grip.

"Alistair," Jack thought to himself, staring at the faded ink. That was the name of my grandfather. The man Karen had just mentioned. The man who married the southern woman to dilute the family bloodline. Jack flipped carefully through the first few pages. His eyes locked onto a specific drawing. It was a flawless anatomical sketch of a human skeleton, with intricate notes detailing how magical energy flowed through the bone marrow. Jack's heart skipped a beat. This was not a diary. This was a manual.

It was a direct, written guide to the exact magic he had been stumbling through blindly for the past month. He heard footsteps echoing down the stone corridor. Karen was coming back with the water. Jack immediately snapped the book shut. He shoved it under his coat, pressing it flat against his ribs, and quickly pushed the loose floorboard back into place. He stood up, leaning his weight onto his cane just as Karen walked into the room carrying a wooden bucket of steaming water.

"I have the soap, Lord Jack," Karen said cheerfully.

"Thank you, Karen," Jack said, keeping his voice entirely calm and flat.

"Actually, being in this room is bringing back more memories than I anticipated. I find I have a sudden headache." Karen's cheerful expression instantly melted into deep concern. She set the bucket down.

"Oh, My Lord. I am sorry. Shall I fetch Old Martha for a draft?"

"No," Jack said quickly.

"No medicine. I just need quiet. I am going to return to my room to rest. Please finish cleaning the floors, and ensure no one disturbs me for the rest of the afternoon."

"Of course, Lord Jack," Karen said, bowing her head respectfully.

"Take all the time you need. I will see to the room." Jack turned and walked out of the original Jack's father's room. He kept his pace steady and normal, masking his intense eagerness. He walked down the corridor, entered his own bedroom, and firmly locked the door behind him. He walked over to his desk, pulled the leather-bound book from his coat, and set it down carefully by the light of the window. For weeks, he had been guessing at the limits of his undead.

He had been guessing at the capacity of his Grey Core. Jack pulled his chair out and sat down. He opened the first page of his grandfather's journal.