The cold had become a familiar habit.

If anyone had forced him to speak honestly, he'd say there were times he felt his body didn’t even belong to him.

Still, there were moments when he noticed it.

When the cold became unbearable, or a wave of pleasant warmth swept through him ... those rare times, he remembered his body.

This time, the cold was stronger than usual.

The castle's heating system ran at full power, yet it wasn't enough.

When winter insists on wrapping its hands around you, where can you escape?

What shelter remains, other than the usual answer:

Wool. Layers.

For many, like his father, one layer was plenty.

But Rizel was different.

He was the only one in the village who always wanted more.

More strength.

More endurance.

More clothes.

And more than anything, more warmth.

His over-dressed figure moved quietly through the stone hallway.

His footsteps echoed behind him.

At the end of the corridor, two torches flanked the exit.

Aside from that, only moonlight lit the passage.

A silver light poured through a window in the middle of the hallway, scattered by the glowing crystals embedded in the wall beside it.

Rizel exhaled again, this time because of the beauty.

He was struck by what he saw.

"No time for this," he told himself and quickened his steps.

He reached for the door, pushed it open, and stepped through.

The wind sounded strange in this new space.

It was constant.

Though he couldn’t feel it, Rizel believed it was calling to him.

It had been a month since the wind had received no reply.

And it was upset.

It missed moving freely, missed brushing against Rizel’s skin.

Sometimes it slammed into the manor’s gate or shook the trees just to be noticed.

Other times, it blew against the flow of people, out of boredom.

Rizel didn’t realize he had stopped moving until cold, invisible fingers touched the skin on his lower back.

He gasped and shivered.

Wherever the fingers traced, sharp pain followed.

"Alright, I’m aware. I’ll hurry," he whispered without turning around.

A nearly colorless mass floated behind him.

He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it clearly.

There was no fear.

The new space was wider, brighter, with a row of doors further ahead.

But with every step he took, the space grew darker and tighter.

This castle had no laughter.

No kitchen where he and his father could share a table and enjoy life together.

Only spirits dined here.

And their guide.

Rizel placed his palm on a door framed with carved stone.

It felt like icy needles pierced through his skin.

He stepped back.

The door cracked like splitting ice and shattered.

A bell rang loudly.

"Is it time, son?"

A man stood further down the corridor, leaning against the wall in shadow.

Rizel didn’t seem surprised.

He pressed his lips together. "Yes, Father."

He thought he heard a sigh, but didn’t look back.

"Why not go with the usual dose, son? This one..."

The pale young man turned, eyes sharp.

"No. Hostile spirit activity has risen. The usual dose won’t work."

He rushed into the room.

He could hear his father inhale sharply.

Of course he understood why.

The mass had started to take a clearer shape.

It trembled, floated, seemed to dance in the air.

More eager than ever to reach Rizel.

He cursed under his breath.

"Damn it. Just wait."

Then louder,

"Give me the solution, Dad."

He began removing his thick layers.

Still, his eyes were fixed on the table.

Anyone looking closely would notice how pale he was, how sunken the area under his eyes had become.

His father stepped forward, placed a cylinder on the table, and began adjusting its straps.

But his gaze never left his son.

"Do you have enough control?"

Rizel’s teeth chattered violently.

"Of course I do. Why even ask?"

Stripped to his undergarments, he wrapped his arms around himself.

"I’ve had a month to prepare."

He looked at the cylinder and sighed.

Then climbed onto the table, his father helping him into place.

"Let’s finish this," he muttered.

His father opened the container and handed it over with hesitation.

A violet liquid moved inside like a restless sea, glowing particles rising slowly.

One glance at the light, at the color ...

And then he drank it.

The cylinder emptied.

"Aaagh ... damn it, aaahhh!"

Rizel screamed and thrashed.

His father rushed to strap him down.

"No, Dad, no! Let me die. Please!"

Tears rolled down his face.

His eyes were red, veins throbbing.

The glowing specks seemed to flash inside them.

"Rizel, listen to me!"

The man finished tightening the straps, turned his son’s face toward him.

The screaming didn’t stop, but Rizel forced himself to look at his father.

"You’re ready. It’s just like before. You’ve done this."

His body looked thinner than ever ... almost dead.

Shrinking.

"Ugh... ooh..."

A distorted sound came from his throat, but his father seemed to understand.

He stepped back.

The pain was everywhere.

Not the kind you get used to.

Not numbing.

This pain dug deep, into his soul.

Yet inside the agony, he felt a bridge.

One that didn’t belong to the physical world.

Familiar.

But this time, the connection was stronger ... and far more fragile.

His eyes locked on the faint hollows of the spirit’s forming face.

"Let’s end this."

The spirit rushed toward his body but stopped, blocked by something.

Rizel pushed his will across the bridge.

He reached the spirit.

And finally, it embraced him.

A fresh scream tore through the room.

The spirit hovered just above him.

He felt large icy needles fighting to escape his insides.

They struggled, desperate to break free.

But he held them in.

He focused.

In pain.

With effort.

And slowly, they shrank into a single mass in his gut.

No sweat formed on his pale skin, but the suffering was obvious.

Wounds with no blood covered his body.

A body made to absorb spirit energy ...

Or maybe a spirit shaped to control it.

One person in each generation was born this way.

This time, it was Rizel.

The cold mass inside him rose.

He pushed it upward.

His father watched as a blue mist left his son’s mouth and flowed into the spirit.

The man tensed even more.

The worst part had passed.

But he was still worried.

"If the spirit doesn’t accept the trade ... if it rejects the energy ..."

He mumbled like a madman, eyes fixed on the spirit.

It was becoming more solid, more like a woman.

As the final bits of energy left Rizel, everything stopped.

Even the sound of breathing.

Only Rizel’s eyes moved.

He stared into the spirit’s now fully-formed gaze.

And he saw something.

Understanding.

The energy meant power.

In exchange for control.

There was hesitation for a brief second.

Then it was gone.

The harmful energy left him completely.

A soft breath followed.

No one could tell if it came from the spirit or the nearly lifeless boy.

The spirit’s face remained unclear, but her hair floated gently, sometimes passing through his wounded skin.

Wherever it touched, the wound healed.

She gazed at his dim eyes, then lowered her head and kissed him.

It was like sunlight blooming between their lips.

He felt warmth.

The kind he had always wanted.

He felt life.

Energy pulsed through his veins.

His body came alive.

Not like before ... better.

Warmth stayed on his lips.

Comforting.

From fingertips to toes, he felt whole again.

His wounds healed.

Quickly.

Unstoppably.

And the spirit faded.

Little by little, until she was gone.

But in the final moment, Rizel heard soft laughter in his ear.

Lips brushing his earlobe.

Whispers like a soothing song.

Dazed, amazed, and alive, the boy lay still.

His father smiled and stepped forward to free him.

"No need."

Rizel’s voice was strong.

Straps tore one by one.

He freed himself.

He sat on the edge of the table.

His muscles looked firm, his face calm and satisfied.

"Incredible,"

he muttered, opening and closing his fists.

"This power. This joy."

His father smiled faintly.

"That’s why none of us have ever gone mad."

Then he nodded, serious again.

"I need to check the region, Father. Things are bad."

He jumped to his feet.

His father hesitated.

"That spirit who exchanged with you..."

Rizel raised his hands.

"It’s not the first time. And please, don’t remind me."

He left the room without putting on his clothes.

His father looked around.

"Spirit dining hall, huh?"