The celebration rages on, but I stand frozen at its edge, watching my sister sway in the circle of firelight.
The crowd surges around her like a tide, touching her shoulders, her hair, blessing her with their reverent hands. My parents beam beside her, accepting congratulations as if they've won a great victory.
"Such an honor for your family!" Old Marta clutches my mother's hands, her eyes bright with fervor. "The gods will remember your names forever."
"We live to serve the tribe," Mother responds, her voice thick with emotion. "Before the harshest winter arrives, Leila will ensure our protection. When spring comes, it will bloom with such abundance—the new leader's reign blessed from its very beginning."
"How many years since the last sacrifice?" someone asks. "Twenty? Twenty-five?"
"Twenty-three years," Father announces proudly. "The ritual comes only when a new leader rises."
The drums shift rhythm, signaling the feast's continuing. People drift toward the long tables laden with winter stores. Father's hand closes on my elbow.
"Come," he commands. "We must speak at home. Your mother will bring Leila shortly."
His grip leaves no room for argument. We walk through the snow-covered paths between dwellings, our footsteps crunching in the silence that stretches taut between us.
Inside, the fire's warmth mocks me. Father moves to pour precious date wine while I remain standing, my wool shawl still wrapped tight.
"Sit," he orders.
"How could you?" The words explode from me. "How could you offer her so quickly?"
Father's hands pause on the wine bottle. "We did our duty. Nothing more, nothing less."
"Duty?" I slam my palm on the wooden table, making the cups rattle. "She's your daughter, not a sheep for slaughter!"
"Lower your voice." He whirls, his face hard as granite. "The sacrifice ensures our survival! Before the killing cold arrives, one pure soul secures the tribe's future. Would you rather watch Rafi's reign begin with famine? Watch the spring fail, the crops wither?"
"There must be another way—"
"There is no other way!" The bottle slams down. "Once in a generation, when leadership changes, we perform this ritual. It guarantees prosperity for decades."
"She doesn't understand what's happening!"
"She understands honor. More than her older sister." His eyes narrow to slits. "Besides, you should be grateful. Your future is also secured."
My blood chills further. "What do you mean?"
"Your marriage to Rafi." He pours the wine as if discussing grain trades. "We've been negotiating with Ammar for months. Once Leila blesses his son's reign, you'll wed the new leader."
The revelation crashes over me. "You planned this."
"Two daughters, two forms of service. Leila brings divine favor. You bring our two families together, an alliance."
"You're monsters."
His hand cracks across my face. Blood fills my mouth where my teeth cut my cheek.
"You dare speak blasphemy under my roof?" His voice drops dangerously low. "Your sister shows more courage than you. She embraces her destiny while you shriek like a child."
The door bursts open. Mother enters with Leila, both flushed from the cold and ceremony. White cloth drapes over my sister's winter garments.
"Don't touch anything, precious one," Mother guides Leila past me. "Purity must be maintained."
"Zahra was just leaving," Father says pointedly. "She'll return when she's ready to show proper respect."
Mother doesn't even glance my way as she leads Leila to her sleeping corner. I follow despite Father's glare, unable to abandon my sister.
The small room already reeks of sacred herbs. Mother arranges elevated cushions while beginning her ritual preparations.
"Out!" Mother snaps without looking at me. "This is sacred work."
She pushes me through the doorway, sliding it shut. But old wood leaves gaps. I press against the wall, watching through a crack as Mother paints ash symbols on Leila's forehead.
"The spirits must recognize you," Mother murmurs. "For next weeks, you'll be purified, prepared for your divine journey."
Leila sits perfectly still, trembling.
"When the harshest winter threatens," Mother continues, grinding herbs, "your sacrifice will turn it aside. Spring will burst with life. Rafi's leadership will flourish. The tribe will prosper for another generation."
"I'm scared," Leila whispers.
"Fear is natural. It makes the sacrifice more precious."
Mother gathers her supplies, moving toward the door. I flee before she emerges, stumbling into the snow outside. The cold strikes like punishment, but I welcome it—anything to numb this agony.
A figure materializes from the swirling snow. Rafi stands near our dwelling, his dark cloak making him look like a shadow given form.
"We need to speak," he says, his breath misting in the night air.
"Get away from me." I try to push past him, but he blocks my path.
"Listen carefully. Your sister needs watching." His voice carries that unsettling calm that makes me want to scream. "The ceremony happens in three weeks, before the killing frost. Your sister will be treated as sacred until then—fed the finest foods, draped in white, prayed over daily."
"How wonderful for her," I snarl.
"She's young," he continues as if I haven't spoken. "Young and frightened. As the time approaches, that fear will grow. She might try to flee into the winter forest."
"Good."
"No." He steps closer, and I see something flicker in his eyes—quickly suppressed. "If she runs, they'll hunt her like a deer. They'll drag her back in chains. Is that how you want her to spend her final weeks? In terror and bondage?"
"I want her to live!"
"That choice is no longer yours to make." His words fall like stones into still water. "The only choice now is whether she faces her destiny with dignity or spends these three weeks in misery. Watch her, Zahra. Keep her calm. Don't let her run."
"Why do you care?" I search his impassive face for any hint of humanity. "What difference does it make to you?"
"Can I trust you?" He ignores my question entirely. "Can I trust you to keep her from making this worse than it needs to be?"
He steps closer, his breath misting between us. The question hangs in the frozen air. Not really a question—his tone carries absolute certainty that I'll agree, that I'll fall in line like everyone else.