Chapter 2: A Frozen Heart

The young beggar was momentarily stunned, a deep sense of bewilderment washing over him. If this woman had no milk to feed her child, why did she not soften the bread herself and feed her daughter? Why plead for the help of a mere beggar?

There was no time for further thought. Urgently, he tore off a small piece of bread, placed it in his mouth, and let his saliva soften it. The bread remained as sweet as ever, yet holding it in his mouth without swallowing—only to spit it out—was an agonizing struggle.

"Hmph!"

Clenching his teeth, he steeled himself. He bent down, scooped up a handful of snow to wipe his hands clean, then carefully took the softened bread from his mouth. Holding it close to the baby's lips, he waited as her mother gently parted her tiny mouth. Finally, he placed the food inside.

Again and again, he repeated this process—biting off a piece of bread, letting it soften, then offering it to the frail infant. His stomach groaned in protest, the lingering sweetness on his tongue tempting him to swallow. Yet, watching the baby's pallor gradually fade, replaced by a flush of warmth, he found himself utterly unable to eat.

At last, the infant refused to take another bite. She closed her eyes and drifted into a deep slumber. The young beggar exhaled, glancing at the now diminished piece of bread in his hand. He hesitated, frowning slightly, then bit his lip and extended what little remained toward the woman.

"Here. Don't let her go hungry again."

The woman gazed at him in silence. She had heard his stomach growl, had seen the reluctance in his eyes as he parted with the bread. Yet despite his own hunger, this child had chosen to surrender his food—for the sake of a stranger's daughter.

After a brief pause, she reached up and pulled back the hood of her cloak. As the clinging snowflakes tumbled away, the young beggar finally saw her face.

She was young—no more than twenty. Even at his age, he could tell she was breathtakingly beautiful, so much so that it felt almost suffocating. Had it been any grown man standing in his place, they might have lost their senses at the sight of her. But the boy was still too young to be stirred by such things. To him, she was merely… stunning.

"Do you know who I am, young one?"

His expression remained as frozen as the winter air. He took a step back, standing at a wary distance.

"I don't know you," he said flatly. "And I won't respect you just because of your name."

The woman let out a quiet sigh of relief. He didn't recognize her. She reached into the folds of her cloak, as if retrieving something—but after a moment's hesitation, her hand stilled.

(This boy… He just gave away his only food to save my daughter. His heart isn't wicked. But before this, his actions spoke more of selfishness and hatred than kindness and tolerance. And that dagger in his coat… It still carries the scent of blood. No… I can't entrust everything to him so easily. No matter how dire the situation, I must be cautious…)

Just as she wavered in indecision, she suddenly noticed something was wrong. Her daughter's tiny body had grown unnaturally warm. Alarmed, she looked down. The infant's face had flushed an even deeper red, her features contorted in discomfort. The woman touched her forehead—burning hot! The snowfall had taken its toll. She was feverish.

Seeing the mother's growing panic, the young beggar stiffened and took a step closer. As he watched her press her hand to the infant's brow, an unspoken understanding passed through him.

"You—do you have any Sula with you? Go buy medicine, now!"

There was a trace of urgency in his voice. But the young mother only shook her head, her eyes clouded with confusion.

The baby's condition worsened. Her breaths grew rapid and shallow, her tiny body shivering. Her eyelids fluttered as if too heavy to lift.

The young beggar clenched his teeth, then abruptly turned toward the alley's exit.

"Where are you going?" the woman called after him.

"The apothecary."

"Do you have any Sula?"

"No. But I have a knife."

The woman's expression darkened instantly. But as she watched the young beggar disappear into the storm, running headlong toward the apothecary without a backward glance, the shadows in her eyes softened.

"…I suppose I can't blame the boy," she murmured. "If he's willing to risk himself for you, my little one, then that is the greatest promise he could ever make."

She lifted her daughter into her arms, pressing a tender kiss to her fevered brow. Then, stretching out a hand—one far more withered than her beautiful face suggested—she traced a delicate symbol in the snow. The flakes stirred, then rose, floating weightlessly into the air.

"Go," she whispered. "Shield that child. Keep him from harm… and keep him from causing harm."

The snowflakes spiraled in the air for a moment before darting out of the alley, racing after the boy. As they vanished into the storm, the woman extended her hand once more, murmuring an incantation. A soft, white glow formed in her palm.

As the sphere of light neared the baby, her breathing grew steady. The fever ebbed, her tiny chest rising and falling in a peaceful rhythm. Only when her daughter's illness had begun to subside did the mother exhale in relief. She let go, and the light faded into nothingness.

"My child… forgive us… Your father and I may no longer be able to protect you… I don't know if you'll grow to hate us, but for your safety, I must entrust you to that boy. Please… don't resent us…"

The street was nothing but a bleak expanse of cold and shadow. Clutching the knife concealed in his coat, the young beggar let its solid weight lend him courage as he stepped once more into the snow.

His threadbare shoes had long since fallen apart, his toes exposed and numb with frostbite. As he left the shelter of the alley and stepped into the main road, he hesitated. The world beyond was too vast, too frigid, too dangerous.

The snowfall thickened.

The ground lay buried beneath a dense, unbroken sheet of white. With each step, his feet sank deep, leaving behind hollowed imprints.

He rubbed his arms fiercely, then slipped the last, pitiful scrap of bread into his mouth, letting his saliva moisten it. He dared not bite, dared not swallow. It was nothing more than a frozen sliver, hard as stone—yet it was his only sustenance. He would not waste it. He would savor it, prolonging the illusion of warmth against the biting cold.

A lone figure, dwarfed by the vastness of the street, he trudged forward, pressing himself against the walls like a wary rodent. In a night such as this, wasting energy was a death sentence. If he did not wish to be found frozen stiff by patrolling soldiers come morning, he had to conserve his strength.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

What time was it? He glanced at the quartz clock at the crossroads—eight o'clock. By now, he would usually have retreated beneath the bridge, curling into the meager warmth of his makeshift nest of tattered cloth.

And yet, here he was, walking toward the apothecary.

…Why?

The question struck him suddenly.

Why was he doing this? Why risk himself for a stranger's child? Why should he care if she lived or died? Everyone who was born into this world bore the burden of their own survival. Why should an infant be any different?

He halted. His heart hardened, his thoughts turning to ice.

He turned around.

But before he could take another step back toward the safety of his shelter, a sharp voice rang out from behind him.

"You villain! Think you can run? The champion of justice is waiting right here for you!"

His breath caught. Instinct took over. His frozen feet stumbled backward, driving him into a reeking alley, buried in heaps of rotting garbage.

The girl's voice rang out again.

"Hmph! You think I can't see you hiding there? Come out! Or do you want me to drag you out myself?"

His fingers curled around the hilt of his knife. His pulse pounded—not out of hesitation, but out of fear. If he failed to strike first, if she had adults waiting for him, then he would not escape alive.

…The snow continued to fall.