The 23 Cannons Trilogy

Frostbite

Brinn woke to a changed environment for the second time. Only this time, instead of merely having the sensation of being covered by a pile of leaves, however that felt, Brinn's body was dipping in and out of waves of numbness. These waves were promptly followed by the most biting cold he had ever felt. His heart rate increased. And although he wasn't aware of it at this precise moment, his body temperature was also on the rise, causing the three foot deep pile of snow he was buried by to begin to melt. The freezing water dripping onto his face was what spurred him to action.

He raised his head sharply, breaking the surface of the snow as would a dolphin in the ocean. Not that Brinn had ever seen a dolphin, nor would he. His dark hair was drenched from the snow, and also perspiration. But he did not notice or care about his hair: he was too transfixed on the landscape surrounding him. A deep layer of snow had fallen, covering the dead leaves which covered once green grass. Absently, Brinn realised this was the third time in his lifespan of fifteen years that he had ever seen snow. Despite the biting cold, a sense of childlike wonder crept into his mind, and he went to stand up. That was when the problems began.

The first thing Brinn was aware of was that he was shivering harshly. The second was that for some reason, his hands wouldn't coordinate with the rest of the body, preventing him from being able to push himself up. The third, and perhaps the most concerning at the moment, was that the numbness that was attacking his entire body was worse on his hands; he could barely feel them (not that Brinn was aware of it, but he was acutely suffering from frostbite and hypothermia, but this didn't matter, as even if he made the symptoms clear, nobody in the Capitol would dare to sponsor such a crazy boy).

Yet somehow, Brinn found the strength to stand up. When he was securely on his feet, he lifted his hands from the snow. The holes formed from where Brinn was laying sort of looked like a bizarre snow angel. Brinn did not know what a snow angel was, for he had never played in the snow in his life. He had only ever marvelled at the beauty of it. These thoughts died the moment Brinn looked at his hands. They had gone red and blotchy, with yellow patches present on his palms. The tips of his fingers had turned black. Brinn screamed.

His mind was not working as it should due to the onset of hypothermia, and because of this, Brinn could not fathom a rational explanation for why his hands had changed. Terror pounded through his veins at a greater rate than his own blood did; blood which was two degrees colder than it should be. He looked around at the snow-coated trees. He saw the blue sky above him, the sun shining down. His head felt light.

Brinn.

Brinn, the time has come.

It is the lord of the dead.

His onslaught of judgement has begun.

The world has frozen over.

None will survive.

You have already been touched by death, Brinn.

Your time is short.

The ghosts swarmed in his cloudy head, and Brinn wanted to punch himself repeatedly to get them to shut up. Normally when the ghosts were talking, Brinn could still perform basic functions. But now, once the ghosts began to speak, Brinn found himself incapable of thought; he was paralysed by the spirits. This frustration died once Brinn got the message. The ghosts had told him of this a long time ago (it was just yesterday, but to Brinn, it felt like four lifetimes). The lord of the dead had arrived. He was beginning his reign of destruction. Brinn knew he would die as a result. But he did not want to die. He was not ready. The urge to survive was too strong, and still prevailed through Brinn's muddled brain.