Cold Control

The alarm buzzed at 6:00 AM, but Esdeath was already awake. Sleep had become optional lately—her body hummed with restless energy that made lying still feel like punishment. She slipped out of bed, dressed in dark athletic clothes, and grabbed a pre-packed duffel bag from under her bed.

The city was still draped in pre-dawn shadows as she made her way to Prospect Park. She knew exactly where to go—a densely wooded area near the ravine where joggers rarely ventured, especially this early. Perfect for what she had in mind.

Dew-damp grass soaked her sneakers as she pushed through a thicket of bushes into a small clearing. The first hints of sunrise filtered through the trees, casting everything in cool blue light. Esdeath dropped her bag and surveyed the space. No cameras, no witnesses. Just her and the quiet morning.

"Time to get serious," she muttered, rolling her shoulders.

From the duffel, she pulled out several plastic bottles filled with water, a notebook, and a stopwatch. She placed them carefully on a fallen log, then stepped into the center of the clearing.

Her first ice dagger formed almost before she finished the thought. Where once it had taken concentration and effort, now the crystalline blade materialized in her palm with barely a flicker of intent. The ice was different too—clearer, denser, with none of the cloudy imperfections from her earlier attempts.

Esdeath balanced it on her fingertips, admiring the weight. Perfect balance. She turned toward a thick oak at the edge of the clearing, gauged the distance, and threw.

The dagger whistled through the air and sank deep into the bark with a solid thunk. Not just stuck—it had penetrated nearly to the hilt, as if she'd thrown it into butter instead of solid wood.

"Holy shit," she whispered, walking over to examine her handiwork. The entry was clean, the wood split rather than splintered. When she tried to pull the dagger out, it held firm. She had to form a small ice pick to pry it loose.

This was progress, but not enough. She needed more. Needed to understand how to call upon that second pulse at will.

Esdeath returned to the center of the clearing. She closed her eyes and focused inward, searching for that strange rhythm she'd felt during fights. That thrumming power that made everything sharper, clearer, deadlier.

"Come on," she whispered. "I know you're in there."

At first, nothing happened. Just her normal heartbeat, steady and ordinary. She tried visualizing danger, imagining threats closing in. Still nothing.

Then she changed tactics. Instead of fear, she focused on power. On dominance. On the rush she'd felt watching her opponent fall.

Something stirred inside her chest—a flutter, then a steady thrum. Her lips curved into a smile as the second pulse awakened, spreading warmth through her limbs.

When she opened her eyes, the world seemed brighter, more defined. She could count the veins in a leaf thirty feet away, hear a squirrel chattering on a distant branch.

Esdeath extended her hand, this time envisioning something more complex—a glaive with a curved blade and elegant shaft. The ice formed instantly, molecules crystallizing in perfect alignment. Within seconds, a gleaming weapon rested in her grip, its blade catching the morning light like diamond.

She twirled it experimentally, expecting the weight to throw her off balance. Instead, her body moved with fluid precision, as if she'd trained with such weapons for years. The glaive became an extension of her arm, cutting elegant arcs through the air.

"Now we're getting somewhere," she said, eyes flashing with newfound power.

Esdeath moved deeper into the clearing, heart still thrumming with that second pulse. She raised her hands, imagining a simple wall of ice.

It materialized before her—a perfect, transparent barrier rising six feet high. Not the cloudy, brittle shield she'd managed before, but something that looked professionally crafted, with clean edges and remarkable clarity.

"Getting better," she murmured, circling the structure.

She tapped it with her knuckles. The ice didn't crack or splinter. It rang with a deep, resonant tone like crystal. With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed it, watching as it dissolved into a fine, glittering mist.

Next came a series of spikes—first small ones that sprouted from the ground in neat rows, then larger ones that formed a defensive perimeter around her position. Each construct came easier than the last, requiring less concentration, less effort.

On impulse, she created a slide—a whimsical, curving structure that looped twice before ending at ground level. She climbed to the top and slid down, laughing despite herself as she picked up speed through the turns. The ice didn't melt beneath her body heat, didn't show a single scratch from her passage.

"This is actually fun," she admitted, brushing frost from her clothes as she stood.

The second pulse still thrummed steadily, but now she felt like she was barely tapping its potential. What if she opened herself to more of it? Let it flow more freely?

Esdeath closed her eyes, focusing on that internal rhythm. She imagined turning a valve, allowing more of that power to surge through her veins. The effect was immediate—her heart raced, her skin tingled with electricity, and the world around her sharpened into hyper-focus.

She opened her eyes, grinning at the raw energy coursing through her. Across the clearing, she'd arranged a crude training dummy made from sticks and branches. Perfect target.

"Let's see what this can really do," she whispered.

She extended her hand, envisioning a spike of ice—something to pierce the dummy's center mass. The construct began forming, but it grew faster than expected, larger than intended. What should have been a spear became a massive javelin, crystallizing with frightening speed.

"Wait—" she started, but it was too late.

The ice projectile launched with a thunderous crack that echoed through the park. It tore through the dummy, obliterated it completely, then continued through two trees behind it—splintering their trunks like matchsticks.

And then Esdeath saw him—a jogger in a red tracksuit who'd chosen that exact moment to run past. The massive spike missed him by inches, causing him to stumble and fall face-first onto the path.

"Shit!" she hissed, rushing forward. "Hey! Are you okay?"

The man looked up, eyes wide with shock. He was middle-aged, balding, with a face drained of color.

"What the hell was that?" he gasped as she helped him to his feet.

"I—I don't know. Tree branch, maybe? Are you hurt?" Her hands trembled as she brushed leaves from his jacket.

"No, I don't think so." He looked toward the damaged trees, confusion etched across his face. "That wasn't a branch. That was... I don't know what that was."

"You should probably sit down for a minute," Esdeath suggested, guiding him to a nearby bench while scanning for any sign of injury.

As soon as she was certain he was unhurt, she made an excuse about getting help and retreated into the trees, heart hammering against her ribs. Her hands were clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms.

Three feet to the left. That's all it would have taken. Three feet, and she'd have killed an innocent man on his morning jog.

The intoxicating thrill of power drained away, replaced by a cold, sickening dread that settled in her stomach like lead.

Esdeath found a secluded outcropping of rock at the park's edge, far from where anyone might stumble across her. The granite was cold beneath her, but she welcomed the chill. It matched the ice forming in her veins as reality sank in.

She stared at her palm, flexing her fingers slowly. Such ordinary-looking hands. No visible sign of the devastation they could unleash. The morning light caught on her skin, illuminating the faint blue tracery of veins beneath—veins that now carried something other than just blood.

"This power... it doesn't ask permission. It wants to be used." The words escaped as barely more than a whisper, but they carried the weight of truth.

That was the problem. Every time she tapped into that second rhythm, it felt like stepping on a gas pedal. The acceleration was intoxicating. Addictive. The way the world sharpened around her, the way her body responded with perfect precision—it wasn't just power. It was pleasure.

And she'd almost killed someone because of it.

Esdeath closed her eyes, feeling the phantom echo of that pulse still lingering beneath her normal heartbeat. The Lust extract wasn't just enhancing her abilities; it was amplifying something darker—that rush she felt when dominating an opponent, that thrill when her ice struck true.

A small ice crystal formed between her fingers without conscious thought. She crushed it in her fist, watching the fragments scatter like diamond dust.

"Control," she muttered. "It's all about control."

The morning breeze carried the distant sounds of the city waking up. Normal people starting normal days. None of them wrestling with the knowledge that they could freeze an entire city block if they lost their temper.

She took a deep breath, then another, focusing on slowing her heart rate. The phantom pulse receded gradually, becoming a quiet hum rather than an insistent drumbeat.

With her breath finally steady, she muttered to herself, "This pulse… it's mine. But I can't let it own me."

That's what she needed—a way to think about this power. A framework for understanding and controlling it.

"Second pulse," she decided, nodding slowly. The name felt right. Not some mystical term or dramatic label, just a simple description of what it was—a power-up that ran parallel to her normal functions. Dangerous, seductive, and incredibly useful.

But one she must master before it mastered her.