Phoenix Blackwood's Arc

Chapter 1 of 3

Phoenix Blackwood came to Northern End to charm a woman who would not smile at him. He heard about her from a trader two towns back. One woman in the whole village, the man said, immune to a handsome face. Phoenix took that as a challenge. He rode north with a grin and no coat thick enough for the mountains. That grin froze on his face when the storm hit. Snow came sideways and buried the road. His horse balked, then bolted, and left him alone in white. Phoenix could not see ten feet. His fingers stopped bending. He knew the cold. It was patient, and it was winning. He had planned to arrive warm and confident. Now he only wanted to live long enough to meet anyone at all. He walked because stopping meant dying. He kept the wind at his back and counted his steps to stay awake. At three hundred he lost the number. His legs felt like someone else's. Then, through the churning snow, he saw a soft yellow glow. He stumbled toward it. A cottage stood in a clearing. Its walls were warm wood laced with frost, and the windows burned gold from within. Icicles hung from the eaves like teeth. Phoenix did not care how strange it looked. He cared that light meant fire. He climbed the low steps and pounded on the door. His fist barely made a sound. "Please," he croaked. "I'm freezing." No answer came. He pounded again, harder, and heard nothing but wind. His knees buckled. He pressed his shoulder to the door and shoved. It swung open. The cottage was empty. A fire snapped in the hearth, low but alive. A kettle sat beside it. A blanket lay folded on a chair, as if someone had left moments ago. Phoenix fell inside and kicked the door shut against the storm. He crawled to the fire. Warmth crept into his hands and stung like needles. He fed the flames two logs from the stack and wrapped himself in the blanket. Slowly, his shivering eased. He was alive. He laughed once, weak and surprised. Then he saw the small things. A woman's gray shawl on a hook. A single cup by the kettle, still faintly warm. Boots by the door, too small for a man. Someone lived here. Someone had walked out into that storm, and had not come back. Phoenix looked from the boots to the door. The person who owned this cottage was out in the white, in the same cold that nearly killed him. If she died out there, her home had saved a stranger and lost her. He was warm now. He was safe. And he could not stay that way. He pulled the blanket tight, forced his stiff legs under him, and stood. Then he opened the door and stepped back into the storm to find her.