The betrayal of Rafi's words burns through me like lightning despite the winter cold. My hand swings toward his face before thought can intervene, all my fury channeled into that single motion.
But his reflexes are quicker—his hand catches my wrist mid-strike, grip firm but not cruel, his skin unnaturally warm against my frozen fingers.
"When I become leader, you will stand alongside me as my wife," he says, his voice carrying that maddening calm. "You can't behave like this, Zahra. You should learn to control yourself."
He releases my hand, and I stumble back, the absence of his warmth leaving me colder than before. The reproach in his tone cuts deeper than the winter wind whipping between us.
"Control myself?" I spit the words like venom. "While you stand there planning my sister's death? While you negotiate for me like I'm cattle at market?"
He turns to leave, his boots crunching through the fresh snow. The sight of his retreating back ignites something desperate in me.
"Did you know?" My voice cracks across the distance between us. "About our marriage arrangement?"
He pauses, snowflakes settling on his broad shoulders like ash from a funeral pyre. For a moment, I think he won't answer.
"Yes." The single word falls between us like a stone through ice.
"How long?" The question tears from my throat.
"Since before the first snow." He still won't face me. "My father approached me when the leaves were still falling."
The betrayal winds through my chest again, squeezing until I can barely breathe. "Months. You've known for months. All those times we spoke at the harvest, at the autumn feast—you knew and said nothing."
"Why didn't you tell me?" I take a step forward, but he's already moving again, walking into the swirling snow. "Rafi! Why didn't you warn me?"
His shoulders tense—the first real emotion I've seen from him tonight—but he doesn't stop. Within moments, the storm swallows him whole, leaving me alone with my rage and the bitter taste of conspiracy.
For three days, he vanishes completely.
I search for him at the training grounds where young men practice with spears despite the cold.
I look near the leader's hut, where he should be learning governance.
I even venture to the frozen stream where we sometimes talked as children. Nothing. It's as if the winter has claimed him, leaving me to stew in confusion while storms rage both outside and within.
By the fourth day, weak winter sun filters through the clouds, and desperation drives me to the elder women's compound.
The moment I enter, the stench of ceremonial oils assaults me—myrrh and frankincense mingling with smoke from the warming fires. My stomach turns as I watch them work, grinding herbs with practiced efficiency.
"Grandmother Iska," I approach the oldest among them, a woman wrapped in so many layers of wool she looks like a walking mountain. "Please, there must be another way. Some forgotten tradition, some alternative to this barbarism."
Her weathered hands don't pause in their grinding of sacred herbs mixed with winter berries. The mortar and pestle create a rhythm that sounds like bones breaking.
"Child, I prepared these same oils for my own sister fifty winters ago, when Ammar's father took leadership." Her voice carries no sorrow, only the weight of acceptance worn smooth by time. "She went beautifully, with dignity. The spring that followed was the most bountiful in memory. Your sister ensures prosperity through the harsh season ahead."
"But she's just a child—"
"As was my sister. As was the girl before her, and the one before that."
Grandmother Iska finally looks up, her clouded eyes somehow still piercing.
"Would you curse us all for one girl's life? Would you see babies freeze in their mothers' arms this winter? Would you watch the elderly starve?"
"There has to be another way," I insist, but even to my ears, the words sound hollow.
"There is no other way," she says with finality. "Now leave us to our work. These oils must be perfect, or your sister's sacrifice means nothing."
I flee the compound, their chanting following me into the snow. My feet carry me home, where I find my parents sitting by the fire, planning Leila's final feast as if organizing a wedding.
"This is murder," I announce, standing before them like an accusation. "You're sending Leila to die in the cold, alone and afraid."
Father's hand strikes the table hard enough to make the cups jump. "It is an honor! The highest honor our family has ever known. Our name will be remembered for generations."
"Remembered as child-killers," I shoot back.
Mother looks up from her sewing—a white dress for Leila, I realize with horror.
"Your sister understands her duty better than you understand yours. While you rage and rebel, she prepares with grace. You should be readying for your spring wedding, learning to manage a leader's household, not spreading discord through the village."
"How can you speak of weddings when you're planning a funeral?"
"Because life continues," Mother says simply. "Spring follows winter. Your marriage follows her sacrifice. The tribe endures. This is the way."
"The way of cowards and murderers."
Father rises so quickly his chair topples. "Get out. Get out before I forget you're my daughter."
My final, desperate hope leads me through the evening snow to Ammar's hut.
The warmth inside mocks the cold dread in my bones as I make my case to the tribe's leader. He listens with barely concealed impatience while I argue, beg, and present every reason why this tradition must end.
"The world has changed," I insist, my voice growing hoarse. "We're not the same people who started these rituals. We have medicine now, better food storage, trade with valley settlements—"
"Enough." Ammar raises his hand, and his authority fills the space between us. "Everything has been decided, girl. The winter rituals have begun. The oils are prepared. Your sister has accepted her fate with grace—why can't you?"
"Because I'm not a monster."
His eyes narrow dangerously. "Careful. You test not just my patience but my generosity. Stop angering your parents. Stop angering me."
He leans forward, his shadow falling across me like a threat.
"Or shall I reconsider whether such a rebellious woman suits my son? Perhaps a more... compliant bride would better serve the tribe's future."
The threat hangs between us, clear as winter ice. Submit or lose even the chance to save Leila from within.
"I understand," I manage through clenched teeth.
"Good. Now go. And remember—time passes quickly. Use it wisely."
That night, I find Leila in her room, elevated on her cushions like a spirit already half-departed from this world.
Candlelight flickers across her young face as she practices the ritual chants, her voice pure and trusting in the darkness:
"I go willingly into the winter darkness, I become light eternal. My blood feeds the frozen earth, my spirit guards the coming spring."
She sees me in the doorway and smiles—that same sweet smile she's worn since childhood. "Zahra! Mother says I'm learning so quickly. She says I might be the best sacrifice the tribe has ever had."
The pride in her voice shatters something inside me. I have three weeks, and I've already wasted four days.
But as I watch my sister practice her death chants with innocent dedication, a new thought crystallizes hard as winter ice:
If no one will help me save her, I'll have to save her myself.