Gideon sat on the roof of the tower, sweeping his eyes across the white expanse blanketing Barbania. The untrodden snow was peppered only with the black and green of dying trees, clinging to life and failing miserably. The remaining villagers inhabiting Barbania lived in the same manner: Much as they hunted and scavenged, they still remained hungry. The scraps of sustenance in their barren, white world were not enough to tame the hunger in their bellies. All were aware of the approaching shadow of the Reaper. All endlessly awaited the day he would come and swing his icy scythe once more. Similar worries did not plague Gideon’s mind; he was not bothered by the thought of death but by a consuming guilt. He knew he was not like the rest of them. The icy wind didn’t make his bones quake or his skin quiver. On this tower, he felt the cold faintly through his thick coat made of beaver fur. Unlike the villagers, Gideon could escape the cold and return to the comfort of his chambers. Their stone walls radiated the warmth they absorbed from the everpresent blaze crackling in his fireplace. On the rare occasion the fire went out — from neglect or an inexperienced firetender — one of his servants would dutifully start another, meticulously picking out the most suitable logs from their ample supply of firewood, and patiently stoking the flames until they returned to their former blazing glory. The castle fires were fed by a steady import of firewood from distant lands where trees grew abundantly, without threat of extinction. While the world outside his window slowly decayed, Gideon enjoyed luxuries sourced straight from happier lands teeming with color and life. At times, he felt he climbed onto this roof, risked its biting cold and its fatal heights, only to taste the feeling that the rest of Barbania consumed daily: the dangerous thrill of death. He was able to experience the plight of the peasant without having to live it. He never thought an experience could bring him so close to the commoner and yet so effectively estrange him at the same time. He was a voyeur of the dying, gazing from the fringes of their dwindling society. His compassion for the villagers did not outweigh his fear of the law, handed down by the theocratic rulers of the state. There was nothing he nor his family could do for the people — not because they lacked resources, but because they had been ordered by the Chief Bishop of the State to allow things to pass according to the will of the gods. Religious oracles deemed the Great Snowsquall as the hand of the gods setting a clean slate over lands overgrown with crime and sin. Entire houses were buried in snow; farmlands froze over and crops died; food and shelter became scarce. For the past three years, Barbania had been plagued by snowsqualls that came and went every few hours, and there seemed to be no end to it. With a sigh that conjured a thick, icy cloud in the air, Gideon slid down the slope of the roof and straddled the dormer below him. He maneuvered his way through the window and back into his room, which began to feel stifling as he walked across it to deposit his fur coat and gloves in the corner. The world outside began to sink into a gentle twilight; the hues that coated his chambers cooled from oranges and reds to blues and purples. He proceeded to get dressed for dinner. * Gideon walked down the halls of the castle, which were dark and freezing, untouched by fire or warmth. The moonlight shone through the windows, dimly illuminating the lush, red carpet lain on the grey stone floors. It was only during these twilit walks to the dining hall that Gideon experienced a distressing chill. He was usually clad only in lighter fabrics like the silk tunic and leather cape he had put on tonight, which did little to protect his body from the stiff winds whistling through the windows. The discomfort was always short-lived, however. Every night, upon descending to the entrance hall, Gideon would enter the great hall through massive wooden doors that opened onto a sunny paradise maintained by the castle mage, Morviren. Gideon’s father, Lord Barban IX, had brought him into the castle’s permanent employ after learning about the great power and skill he possessed. Morviren’s sole responsibility was to manage the climate within the vast hall; in exchange, he was granted permanent lodging and three sumptuous meals a day. Morviren was eternally grateful for Barban’s generous offer, and greatly exceeded the demands of his job. Instead of a simple spell to adjust the temperature inside the hall, he conjured an everlasting flame and encased it in a diffusing suspension, creating a minuscule version of Earth’s sun. The suspended flame projected bright light and moderate warmth across the large room, and remained stable for days before requiring Morviren’s recasting. With imagination and ingenuity, the powerful mage used an innovative glamor charm that gave the room the appearance of a paradise in the tropics visited frequently by pleasantly cool breezes. The floor was coated with a fine sand that did not burn the bare feet of those who walked on it. The dining table at the center was made of bamboo, and two rows of palm trees created a sheer canopy to give the diners respite from the bright rays of the everlasting flame. An oasis glinted invitingly at the far corner of the room, installed magically with Morviren’s capable hands. Every night, Gideon, his brothers, and the Lord and Lady Barban dined in this tropical paradise built solely for their comfort and enjoyment. Tonight, as Gideon walked towards the dining table, a footman approached to take his coat and boots. He walked the remainder of the way barefoot, enjoying the breeze that ruffled his silk tunic. He saw that neither of his parents were present; however, both of his brothers had begun dining. “Frederich, Blaise,” Gideon began gravely as he took a seat, “you recall what tonight is, I hope?” “Yes, Gideon,” Frederich replied, looking at him with rapt attention. “Vigil,” Blaise stated simply. “Why we came down early.” “Yes. That was good of you.” Gideon nodded as a footman served him smoked fish from a silver platter and filled his bowl with stew. Frederich and Gideon were nearly finished. “Where are Mother and Father?” “Father was feeling ill again,” Blaise replied. “Mother wasn’t hungry. They decided to turn in early.” Gideon’s lips tightened. “This makes tonight’s Vigil even more crucial then. It’s not just for the villagers anymore. It’s for our family. You never know who will be taken.” The younger brothers nodded in agreement, and the three finished their dinner quickly and in silence. The hour of the Reaper was approaching; it was always good to be one step ahead. * “Do you see anything?” Blaise whispered to Frederich, who was looking through a silver spyglass directed at the eastern sprawl of Barbania. It was nine in the evening and the two brothers were stationed at one of the two range staves positioned at each window of Gideon’s room. Because Frederich was in training and Blaise was a novice to the Vigilance, Gideon had paired them together, assigning his younger brother to keep watch while Blaise was responsible for operating the range staff. “Nothing,” Frederich whispered back. “Everything just looks white. It feels like I’m going blind.” “You’ve got to watch out for it,” Blaise advised. “It can be quick. Sometimes just a silver flash or a grey blur. It constantly alters its appearance.” “So what am I supposed to be looking out for? A silver flash or a grey blur?” “I told you. It changes,” Blaise repeated, mildly irked. “Then how am I supposed to know when I see it?” Frederich snapped. Blaise was about to respond with equal annoyance when Gideon chimed in. “You’ll know it when you see it.” The eldest brother was stationed across the room from the other two, watching over Barbania’s western territory. “Blaise is right: it changes constantly, but you’ll see the little nuances of color and light that set it off from the snow and shadows. At times a wavering glimmer, a times a steady apparition. At times… many other things. The most important, however, is the feeling.” “The feeling?” Gideon turned from the window to face Frederich. “When you spot the Reaper, it’s… like a rush,” he explained. “The type of rush that makes you question whether you will live or die. It’s exhilarating, but at the same time terrifying. It is, I suspect, the same chill that overcomes every Barbanian as they lie dying in the snow.” Gideon pointed out the window. “Every Barbanian that has had to weather that frigid storm.” Frederich looked solemly at the floor, contemplating the elusive danger that stalked them all in the dead of night. He was only fifteen. He couldn’t be ready, could he? He hesitated before raising the spyglass to his eye to resume Sight Vigil. Blaise gave his younger brother an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Remember what Gideon said. Peel your eyes and steel your nerves. You can do this, brother.” At the opposite end of the room, Gideon returned to his own Sight Vigil, holding a silver spyglass to his eye with one hand while keeping his other hand on his range staff. He had to be ready for Striking Vigil at any moment. His vision swept across the white expanse, turned grey by the darkness. For the next twenty minutes, he felt nothing except the chill of the wind on his face and the warmth from the fire behind him. Gideon moved his focus to the sunken area of the woods just a few kilometers from the main village and its sparse scatter of houses. There. Gideon saw it the moment he felt it. A silvery figure with blurred edges accompanied by a constricting cold around his heart. Training his spyglass on the silver figure, he pressed firmly on the magical rune carved near the eyepiece. He felt the metal warm beneath his finger, signalling that it was ready to cast. Gideon inserted the now-glowing eyepiece into the opening at the top of the staff, turning it like a screw, merging metal and wood. Taking the range staff in both hands, he aimed the primary lens of the spyglass towards the forested area where he had spotted the Reaper. He muttered the ancient words to cast Striking Vigil onto the silver harbinger of death. A jet black energy, trailed by dark smoke, shot from the lens. It dove and twisted its way towards the Reaper, a deadly energy stalking death itself. Gideon heard an airy scream as the Reaper was struck. The energy turned to smoke and dissipated into the air. The Reaper, frozen in place, slowly faded and disappeared. Blaise and Frederich bolted from their positions across the room and peered excitedly through Gideon’s window. “You got it?” “Where?” “Tell me what it looked like!” Gideon unscrewed the spyglass from his staff, setting it onto the window sill to cool. He would need it again later. “Gideon!” Frederich pleaded. “Tell us all about it. Please.” “Later, boys. Get back to your post,” Gideon ordered. “You know the Reaper is never brought down for long. My spyglass needs a few minutes before I can use it again. I suggest you make use of your own while you can.” Gideon turned back to the window to dismiss them. He breathed in the icy air, allowing the cold to fill him. The spyglass beside him glowed once, signalling it was ready. He picked it up and resumed Sight Vigil. The snowy plains shined dully beneath the moonlight. The silence blanketing the night seemed to speak of a strange beauty, which could be known only through the certainty of peace and eternal rest.