A dark night encompassed the snowy forest.
Tall trees reached up from the frozen earth, their branches clawing at a sky glittering with white stars. Rolling hills surrounded the woods, forming a stunning, untouched landscape. Amidst the silent trees, a figure moved.
Huff.
Huff.
A boy appeared in the darkness, breath rising in faint clouds. His raven-black hair flickered in the wind, brushing against piercing blue eyes that scanned the terrain. In his left hand, he held a black lantern that glowed with an orange hue, casting a warm light over his black coat.
Suddenly, he stopped.
With his right hand, he pulled a golden ornament from his pocket. It lay cold and round in his pale palm.
Click.
The ornament split in half, revealing a compass with silver hands that spun wildly, showing no direction.
"Damn it!"
He frowned, staring at the malfunctioning device.
"I'll ask Dad to fix it later…"
As he moved to close it, a soft light began to glow from the compass's core. Unseen by the boy, a white radiance briefly filled the space between the trees.
This compass… Grandpa gave it to me before he passed. Last year. When I turned fourteen...
"It's weird. That thing never breaks."
He returned the ornament to his pocket, considering his next steps. Normally, he and his father would mark trees near their home after hunting trips. But now, there were no marks in sight.
"…Left it is."
He veered off the path.
Suddenly, the wind howled louder, snow lifting from the ground in swirling gusts. The trees groaned and bent, and the forest grew darker.
A storm's coming… and I'm not home yet.
He broke into a sprint.
Through the veil of snow, a tree marked by his hand came into view—his signal that home was near. He followed the signs, finally arriving at a narrow path leading to a dark wooden house. Light seeped through the windows, and smoke curled from the brick chimney.
Reaching the door, he hung the lantern and pulled out his key. The warmth inside greeted him like a long-lost friend. He shut the door behind him with a sigh of relief.
"Jack!"
A tall, broad-shouldered man with hazel eyes approached. His brown hair was slightly messy, and his clothes, though warm and practical, gave him a calm presence.
"God… you made me worried. What took you so long?"
Jack looked up, his shimmering blue eyes filled with guilt.
"Had some trouble with my stuff… and then, boom. Snowstorm."
He finally noticed the dinner table nearby. A woman with jet-black hair and matching white eyes sat at one of the chairs, watching him with quiet concern.
"I told you to leave earlier," she said softly. "You had me worried."
"…Sorry, Mom. I'll listen next time."
She sighed, arms wrapping around him as he reached her.
"Hmmph. We were going to have cake today, but since you don't listen…"
Her lips curled into a smirk. "Guess it'll have to wait 'til next week."
"Wait, what!?" his father exclaimed. "Go on, Jack—say you're sorry again! I'm not going another night with no dessert because of you!"
Jack and his mother exchanged glances, then burst into laughter.
"It seems like that would be a more fitting punishment for your father," she said.
Jack grinned. "Okay, we'll have dessert… but I promise I won't make you worry again."
"That's all I wanted to hear."
After a moment, Jack turned to his father.
"Dad… I think the compass broke?"
He pulled it from his pocket, showing the wildly spinning hands.
"I didn't drop it or anything—it just went crazy."
His father's face paled.
The warmth drained from the room in an instant. Jack's mother stiffened. Her fingers trembled, ever so slightly.
"Dad?"
His father crouched in front of him, eyes serious.
"Let me see it."
Jack hesitated, then handed over the compass. His father pressed the mechanism.
Click.
It opened—and the silver hands still spun.
"…It's happening, Grace."
Jack blinked.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
His mother stood, the color draining from her face.
"Mom? Dad? What's going on?"
His father gripped his shoulder.
"Nothing. Everything's going to be okay. Just do as I say."
He led Jack toward the basement. His mother followed.
The basement looked the same as always: lined with racks of weapons, some for hunting—others clearly not.
"Can I know what's going on? Please!"
Tears formed in Jack's eyes. His father wiped one away.
"Don't worry. Stay here for a few minutes. We'll be right back."
His mother hugged him, eyes wet.
"After that… we'll get the cake. I know you wa—"
BOOOOM.
The whole house shook. A violent rumble, louder than the storm, roared closer.
"Hold on to your dagger!" his father barked. "We'll come soon!"
Jack's dagger—a gift from his grandfather—rested in an elegant dark sheath. Its silver blade was engraved with a delicate snowflake symbol.
He trembled as his parents ascended the stairs.
Time crawled. Seconds became minutes. Minutes became agony.
He couldn't wait any longer.
Gripping the dagger, Jack took a deep breath and moved. One step. Another. He reached the top.
BANG!
A figure flew across the room, slamming into a wall.
"Dad!"
Jack ran to him. Blood dripped from his father's face. His eyes, wide with horror, stared past Jack—toward the door.
"JACK! GET OUT! IT'S YOUR—"
Cough!
Blood spilled from his lips.
Jack turned just in time.
His mother stood in the doorway.
Her long black hair hung in bloody strands. One arm was missing. Her remaining hand clutched the bloodstained spear.
Her eyes glowed white.
The floor beneath her iced over.
"…Mom?"
He took a step forward.
Behind him, his father screamed.
"Jack—get out!"
"…It's just Mom, right? She's hurt—"
In the blink of an eye, she was in front of him.
The spear pierced his chest.
Jack gasped.
"Mom…?"
Tears trickled from her empty, glowing eyes.
Behind him, his father's voice echoed.
"GO NORTH!"
Click.
A radiant white light exploded outward.
Jack vanished.
As if the light had swallowed him whole.