The Voice That Burns Cold

"I came with this bag, so I had to guard it properly because you were lurking in the dark before," I said, my voice shaking even though I didn’t want it to, clutching the old, beaten leather bag tighter against my chest like it was some kind of shield made of magic, like it could protect me from whatever or whoever he was. I hated that my voice trembled. I hated that my knees felt like soft jelly under my weight. I hated that I could barely breathe in the thick air of that long, narrow hallway, where the walls felt like they were leaning in, like they were watching me too.

I wanted to sound brave, truly I did. I wanted to stand tall the way my mother had taught me before she died, telling me to never bow my head even if the ground was shaking, even if monsters were real. But the truth was, I couldn’t do it anymore.The words came out shaky, fragile, like a string about to snap, and my arms felt frozen stiff, like they were carved from ice, thin cold sticks of fear wrapped in skin that didn’t feel like mine anymore.

The man did not answer me. Not at first. He just stood there in the middle of the hallway, as still as death, as unmoving as stone, as if he had become a statue carved from fear itself, but with breath still moving in his chest. Silent. Waiting. Watching. The kind of silence that eats through bones.

His face was turned just enough that I could see half of it—sharp, almost unnatural. His jawline could have sliced through silence if it moved, and his cheekbones sat high like they were carved by some angry artist who had never seen a smile.

Then suddenly—

His head twisted toward me.

And when I say twisted, I don’t mean turned. I mean twisted, like his bones weren’t normal, like something inside his neck didn’t bend like a human should. It snapped around too fast, too sharp, too perfect, like a wild owl who had heard the rustle of a mouse in the dark.

His mouth moved, but it didn’t stretch into anything close to a smile.

It curled. Slowly. Darkly.

Into something evil. Something cruel.

Then he said it.

In a voice that could kill stars.

“Keep your hands down!”

That voice—it didn’t just come at me. It sliced through me like cold iron. It was not loud, but it struck like thunder, quiet thunder from the bottom of the sea. I jumped. Not flinched. Not twitched. I jumped. My whole body reacted like I had been hit. My arms fell by themselves like they had betrayed me, like they no longer belonged to me. The bag slipped from my fingers and hit the wooden floor with a deep, hollow thud.

That thud didn’t sound like just a bag hitting the floor.

It echoed.

Like a warning.

A sound that said, you just made a mistake.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t move.

He stood there. Watching. Breathing. His eyes locked on me like they could see through skin, through muscle, through bone, down into every frightened piece of my soul.

That voice…

It wasn’t just sharp. It was more than sharp. It was a blade scraping against bone, dragging itself across my spine, whispering threats with every syllable. It was cold. So cold, that it burned. Like touching dry ice. It was deep—deeper than oceans—but it didn’t calm like the sea. It was wild. Violent. It was old. Ancient. Like something that had crawled up from under the ground after sleeping for a thousand years.

He took one step forward.

Just one.

And I didn’t move. I couldn’t. I was frozen. My legs refused to obey, my lungs squeezed tight, my chest heavy like it had rocks inside.

He took another step.

My breath caught. My throat closed. My heart thudded so hard that I could feel it in my ears.

Then he spoke again.

“My name is Kade Blackthorne.”

He said it like it wasn’t a name. He said it like it was a sentence. Like it was a death sentence. Like his name was a curse, and now that I’d heard it, I couldn’t ever forget it. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to breathe. I didn’t want to exist in that moment. But I had no choice.

He stepped closer. He kept moving closer.

Then his voice came again, louder, harsher, like a whip snapping across my ears.

“I am the master of this house. In my house, you do not move around like a scared chicken. You do not touch anything. You do not breathe too loud. You do not look at me unless I allow you. Do you understand that?”

My head nodded. I didn’t mean for it to. It just did. My body betrayed me again. My muscles shook, but they obeyed him. They feared him more than they feared the shame of trembling.

He stepped even closer.

His skin… too smooth. So smooth it looked wrong. Not like skin. Like glass. No pores. No lines. No wrinkles. No age. Just smooth, cold perfection. He didn’t look alive. He looked like something made. Something crafted.

He stared down at me. I stared at the floor.

I couldn’t look into those eyes any longer. I was afraid I would scream.

I tried to speak. My voice was buried under the weight of fear.

“What is my job here?” I asked. I needed to say something. Anything. The silence was breaking me like glass underfoot. I needed words. I needed sound.

“Job?” He repeated the word like it was poison in his mouth.

He tilted his head, slow, sharp, like a creature hearing a strange sound for the first time.

“You said… job?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, the words trembling off my lips. “My father said I would work here.”

He took another long step. The sound of his boots on the floor was like thunder inside my head.

“Your father sent you here?” he said, the words slow, the tone dangerous.

I nodded again.

He turned his back to me.

That should have made me feel safer.

It didn’t.

“Then it shall be discussed tomorrow morning.”

His voice was still sharp, but quieter now, like it was waiting to become a storm.

Before I could stop myself, I stepped forward, just an inch, just enough to find courage hiding inside me, even if it was only a thread.

“Sir… what about my monthly pay?”

I regretted it the moment it left my mouth.

Because everything changed.

Kade Blackthorne’s eyes did not just turn toward me. They flared.

They burned.

But it wasn’t regular fire. It was blue fire. Cold blue fire that crawled across his eyes like it was alive. Like it wanted to reach out and touch me. Like it wanted to taste fear.

The flames didn’t flicker. They moved with purpose, licking the edges of his eye sockets, moving like snakes made of frozen fire.

He didn’t speak to me directly.

Instead, he shouted again.

“Take her to her room! What a pathetic human!”

The word struck me.

Human?

What did he mean?

What was he, if not human?

The word rang in my ears like a scream held under water.

Human?

I thought it again and again.

Who is this man?

Where exactly am I?