Chapter 2 The Dream Of Ice

• The night Lucy’s grandmother died, the wind fell still.
• The old woman’s breathing was a rattling hush in the dark, every exhale like paper tearing slowly. Lucy sat at the bedside, her hand resting over her grandmother’s frail fingers. She had not slept in hours—days, maybe. She didn’t know anymore. Time had become strange in the house, curled inward like dried herbs on a forgotten shelf.
• Outside, the wind carried scents of earth and dusk. Inside, only the scent of linen and dried lavender lingered. The fireplace had gone cold, but Lucy didn’t dare leave her side. She watched as her grandmother’s lips moved, dry and barely able to speak.
• “You are the last,” her grandmother whispered, her voice brittle but heavy with knowing. “The last healer of our line.”
• Lucy’s eyes stung with unshed tears. “No. You’ll wake up tomorrow. I’ll brew you rosemary tea. You’ll tell me which roots I’m mislabeling again.”
• But the old woman smiled faintly, her eyes focused on a point far beyond the shadows of the room. “The old world… It’s nearly gone. And the new one won’t be kind. But you, child… you carry more than my blood. You carry our fire. Even if it burns quietly.”
• The words pierced deeper than any wound.
• Lucy leaned close. “I’ll remember everything you taught me.”
• A trembling hand reached up, touching her cheek. “Not just the herbs. Not just the poultices. Remember the silence, Lucy. Healers listen to more than words.”
• Then her hand fell. A breath escaped her lips, and she moved no more.
• Lucy had a dream about frost that night.
• Tayawan was completely engulfed by a dazzling white landscape as mountains of snow rose over familiar locations. The weight of the ice caused buildings to crack. Only the faint glimmer of moonlight bouncing off icicles was visible; there was no sun. She stood barefoot on the frozen ground, her legs burning and her breath coming in short gasps. It was as frigid as glass.
• Screams could be heard in the distance, but they were muffled by the silence of the snow. Voices that had once laughed and lived, but not ones she knew.
• Then she saw herself running. Hunted. Bleeding.
• Figures followed—blurs in the snow, no faces, only shapes of fury and desperation. Her heart pounded so loudly it became the rhythm of the world. Her feet left red prints behind her.
• A whisper, not of sound, but of meaning, wrapped itself around her: They seek the Domain.
• She fell, and the ground opened beneath her—a rift of cold stars and still air.
• She awoke with a gasp.
• Her breath fogged the air, though the hearth had not gone out. Sweat covered her skin, but she shivered uncontrollably. She felt as if someone had dragged her soul through snow.
• And worse—she remembered everything.
• Two years passed.
• At fourteen, Lucy had been taken under the care of the village elders. Legally, she was a ward of Tayawan, though the townsfolk respected the old healer’s wishes and allowed her to remain in the cottage on the hill. It stood quietly at the edge of the village, its garden a burst of color and life even in winter, thanks to Lucy’s tireless hands.
• She lived alone, but she was not isolated. Not entirely.
• The villagers came when they were sick. When a child had a fever. When a leg was twisted or a cough lingered. Lucy treated them, her hands steady, her knowledge pulled from books, memory, and instinct.
• They left behind what they could—coins, dried meat, seed packets, and tools. She never asked for more.
• “I can’t believe how much you look like her,” old Mara would say, touching Lucy’s hair with soft reverence. “Same sharp eyes. Same quiet strength.”
• “She taught me well,” Lucy would reply, and she meant it.
• Every morning, she walked the garden rows, whispering to the herbs as her grandmother had taught her. She pruned the lavender, harvested the mint, and sorted the roots. She studied the weather. She read through her grandmother’s notes again and again—longing to hear her voice in the scribbled margins.
• At night, she practiced. Wraps. Salves. Teas. Tinctures. The scent of rosemary and juniper became part of her skin. Her hands grew stained with soil, her eyes sharper with each passing month.
• But she kept to herself. Always.
• Not because she was afraid. But because she knew something now.
• The dream had returned.
• Again and again.
• Not always the same—but always the cold. The endless frost swallowing the world. The feeling of being pursued. The terror of being seen.
• And something else. Something deeper.
• Lucy had known about the Domain since she was ten.
• Her grandmother never knew of it.
• From the moment it awakened, quiet and radiant inside her, she understood the weight of what she carried. It wasn’t born out of the bloodline alone—it was bound to her, tethered to her soul. The Sanctuary was hers entirely—a living echo of her spirit.
• It grew as she grew.
• She could enter it in an instant—close her eyes, reach inward, and find herself walking paths no one else could see. Within the Sanctuary, the air was crisp, kissed with the scent of pine and damp earth, a place untouched by time. The fruit-bearing trees and trees that can be used in medicine shifted with the winds. The herbs, vegetables, and fruit bushes she planted thrive in organized rows, protected by a simple fence—meant not for strangers, but for the animals she raised within.
• Cows and pigs roamed freely, grazing on the tall, clean grass that grew in abundance. They were healthy, content, and untouched by disease or scarcity. Chickens and other poultry are scattered under low trees, roaming peacefully as there are no predators around. Every life inside the Sanctuary thrived under her care, an ecosystem woven from her will.
• And in the center, beyond the garden and past the open meadows, was the lake.
• Still and deep, the water shimmered with its own soft light. Beneath the surface, Lucy had long ago noticed something strange—life unlike anything from her village's creeks or rivers. Fish with shining scales, slow-gliding creatures with fins like sails, even a glimpse once of a great shadow, too large to be from any known stream. Oceanic life, she realized. Somehow, her Sanctuary held not only the land but also the waters of a distant world she had never seen. And she never tries to question how seawater's marine life is there inside the unassuming lake.
• But among all its wonders, the most curious structure stood at the western edge of the lake: a three-story villa, no more than 2,300 square feet, made of smooth, dark wood and cool, pale stone. Growing along with the domain, it started in an open-plan room and grew to its current size as the domain grew. The small house rose elegantly into the air, framed by flowerbeds and vines that bloomed even in snow.
• Inside, the villa was simple but rich in comfort. A kitchen with copper pots, a library with tall shelves and thick rugs, bedrooms with deep quilts and wide windows. But what set it apart—what made it singular—was what time could not touch inside its walls.
• Food left on the counter never rotted. Hot meals stayed warm, and cold drinks remained chilled. A loaf of bread would remain fresh, and a bowl of soup would steam gently for hours, even days, after it was made. Medicines, once stored there, retained their potency far beyond their labels. Salves, tinctures, teas—all preserved as though the moment they were created had frozen perfectly in time.
• It was not true stasis, but something gentler: a pause, a breath held indefinitely. A jar of honey remained golden and clear. A cup of water never lost its clarity. And yet, the moment anything was removed from the villa and taken outside—whether into the wilds of the Sanctuary or beyond into the real world—time resumed. Warmth faded. Food aged. Medicine began its natural decay.
• Lucy learned quickly to store what she could inside. Emergency meals, rare herbs, tools she might need later in perfect condition. It was a safeguard, a secret miracle.
• The villa had clean running water—clear, endlessly flowing, always cold or hot on command. The bathroom was modern, with tiled floors, a deep soaking tub, and a rainfall shower. It even had modern appliances, like a quiet washing machine, a compact oven, and a stove that responded instantly to touch. There was no need for external hookups, no need to haul anything in. Everything worked.
• There was even a dishwasher, though Lucy barely used it, and a small refrigerator. Although never truly needed, as the villa itself kept everything as they were.
• Beyond even these comforts, the entire villa remained at a perfect, unchanging temperature. Summer or winter outside, within its walls, it was always just right—no heaters, no air conditioners, no firewood needed. The temperature adjusted gently, like the house itself breathed in rhythm with her mood.
• And one more marvel: Electricity. Though no wires ran through the forest, no solar panels lined the rooftops, the villa had light. Power hummed gently through its walls, illuminating lamps with warm golden glow, keeping her small refrigerator chilled, powering her old tablet where she stored her digitized notes—and, most critically, keeping her phone charged.
• She didn’t use it often—signal in the outside world was inconsistent at best—but sometimes, it mattered. Sometimes, she needed to record information or take a picture of a rare plant. Sometimes, she needed to call for supplies. And sometimes, when she needed comfort, she’d open a message she’d saved long ago—a recording of her grandmother’s voice. For those things, power was essential.
• She didn’t know where the electricity came from. She didn’t ask.
• The Sanctuary had a rhythm, a law of its own. It provided what she needed—not out of indulgence, but because it was hers. Because she was the Sanctuary.
• No matter how vast the space felt or how many wonders it held, it all remained tied to one truth: it existed because of her. When she summoned it, it answered. When she imagined something that already existed within, it took form in her hands.
• Even when she stood outside of it—selling poultices in the village square, tending to scraped knees and weary farmers—she could call anything from within. If she needed chamomile, it would appear in her hands. A salve she’d left inside? It arrived at her call. If she were within the Sanctuary itself, her ability was even stronger. She never needed to pluck herbs from the ground; her thoughts shaped her surroundings. A basket of healing roots, a handful of rare berries, a clean bowl of water—they came to her as easily as breath.
• It was her hidden realm.
• Lucy had kept it a secret all these years because she had been taught to.
• “There are gifts you never share,” her grandmother once warned, “Not even with family. Some things, once spoken, are no longer yours. And if the world hears of them—if the wrong ears listen—they will hunt you for it. People destroy what they do not understand.”
• Those words stayed with Lucy long after the fire burned low.
• So she never spoke of the domain.
• She grew it instead.
• Nurtured it.
• Built within it a life untouched by the world’s cold suspicions.
• It was the heart of her healing work. It made her the finest herbalist in the region.
• No one knew the truth of it.
• The Sanctuary was Lucy’s alone.
• At sixteen, the dream changed.
• The night before it returned, she had treated a fevered child. Her hands shook from exhaustion. She collapsed into her bed, and the moment she closed her eyes—
• And it came
• She was in the heart of the village, but it was unrecognizable. Tayawan was buried in snow taller than the roofs. Children frozen beneath windows. Parents screaming silently from under drifts.
• She ran again. Her breath caught like ice shards in her throat. Her feet bled, her fingers stiff and useless.
• And then she saw them.
• Hunters. Not of animals—but of her. Their eyes glowed. Their voices were hunger. They knew her name.
• We will find you.
• We will survive because of you.
• The Domain will be ours.
• She screamed.
• And then, she saw it, a calendar torn with the chaos, 2030.
• One year
• She awoke to find herself weeping, curled in the center of her room, her palms pressed to the floor. The warmth of the hearth could not chase away the chill she felt inside.
• “I am not ready,” she whispered.
• After experiencing the frost, blood, and terrifying clarity of why she was being hunted in the dream, Lucy began to plan.
• She had always known her domain was special, powerful in a way even she hadn’t fully understood. But now she knew it would be coveted. Not because of what it meant, but because of what it could do. Her Sanctuary could support life: grow food, purify water, shelter people, and defy the decay of time. And in a world swallowed by ice, it would be priceless.
• That dream had been a warning.
• She couldn’t rely solely on the Sanctuary. As limitless as it felt, it wasn’t immune to the needs of survival beyond food and comfort. If she revealed it, it would be her death sentence. If she trusted the wrong person, it would be her undoing. And if she failed to prepare outside of it—if she didn’t plan for the world’s descent into desperation—then she would be no better off than the rest.
• She didn’t know how long the calamity would last—or if it would ever end. But she had time. Maybe just enough.
• Lucy began to stockpile.
• Not food—her domain provided more than she could ever consume. What she needed were the things her Sanctuary couldn’t make: winter clothes, gear to survive the illusion of struggle, and supplies that made her look like any other survivor.
• She lived in a tropical country, where the idea of snow was a novelty in movies and postcards. Finding cold-weather clothing wasn’t easy. Even in the city, thick jackets and snow boots were rare and overpriced. But Lucy had learned patience, and she searched deliberately. College gave her the excuse she needed. She traveled to the city often, ostensibly for her studies, but each visit served a dual purpose.
• She scoured secondhand shops and online forums, collecting what she could: insulated parkas, thermal underwear, gloves, boots, windbreakers, and heavy-duty socks. Some came from stores that catered to foreign travelers or mountaineers, others from tourists selling off what they wouldn’t take back home. Bit by bit, her collection grew—and every item vanished into her domain the moment she returned.
• She would need to blend in. Live among survivors. Convince others she was just as desperate as they were. And to do that, she needed more than warm clothes. She needed the right tools, the right gear—things people expected someone prepared to have.
• She bought portable greenhouses under the pretense of a botanical project. Stoves and heaters are designed for camping. Solar panels and wind-up radios. Water filtration systems. She even acquired vehicles—a used pickup truck, an all-terrain motorcycle, and a snow-capable van imported from a northern country. Mechanics helped her without asking too many questions, and once the engines were tuned and humming, they too vanished into the folds of her hidden world.
• Weapons were harder. Her grandmother had taught her to heal, not to harm. But the dream had shown her what desperation looked like—how far people would go to steal hope. So she trained. Quietly. She learned to use a bow for hunting, carried a knife for protection, and stored both in the villa alongside basic ammunition and self-defense tools. Not to become a soldier—but to survive as one who had something others might kill for.
• All the while, her life in the village continued without disruption. She still lived in her grandmother’s old house, still tended the garden, and offered healing in exchange for supplies or cash. The neighbors, used to the open nature of the household, came and went as they always had. They picked fruit, gathered herbs, and helped when needed. When Lucy left for the city, the elders watched the house. It had always been this way—even before her grandmother passed.
• The only time Lucy closed the doors was at night, when the sky darkened and she needed the silence of solitude. Behind those doors, she planned. She prepared.
• Every piece, every item stored in the Domain, was part of a future she hoped would never come—but one she would be ready for.
• Because when the frost came—when the world turned to ice and chaos—she would need to be more than the last Healer.
• She would need to be invisible.
• Prepared.
• Alive.