Seven days. Seven days of failure carve hollows beneath my eyes.
The winter solstice has passed, and each day stretches slightly longer, mocking me with light I cannot grasp. Every path leads to locked doors, every plea falls on frozen hearts.
Leila floats through our home, practicing her death chants between meals she's no longer allowed to prepare herself. My parents guard her constantly, ensuring I have no moment alone with her.
"The ceremony draws near," Mother reminds me each morning, her voice sharp as winter wind. "You should focus on your future duties, not your sister's sacred path."
The village elders turn their backs when I approach. Doors close. Conversations cease. Even the children avoid me, warned by parents who fear my rebellion might spread like plague.
Yasmin's mother pulls her inside when I pass their dwelling, her father standing guard at the threshold—my dearest friend now forbidden from speaking to me.
And Rafi—Rafi has become smoke. I catch glimpses at a distance: a shadow crossing between huts, a figure vanishing around corners. Always moving away, always just beyond reach.
The idea comes in the frozen darkness before dawn. I wake with it fully formed, terrible and perfect, like ice crystals on window glass. Once conceived, it consumes everything else.
My feet crunch through fresh snow toward Ammar's hut. Voices drift from within—my parents' eager tones mixing with Ammar's deeper authority. They're discussing final preparations, down to which flowers will crown Leila's head despite the winter season.
The warmth hits like a wall when I push through the entrance. Four faces turn—my parents, Ammar, and Rafi, seated in shadow near the far wall. Ammar's expression darkens immediately, storm clouds gathering.
"We've talked enough about this, girl. I won't waver." His words crack like breaking branches.
My parents' faces flush with humiliation.
"Zahra, don't embarrass us before our leader," Father hisses, while Mother's fingers dig into her thighs.
Rafi doesn't move. Doesn't speak. His face remains carved from stone, eyes tracking me with predator stillness.
Snow drips from my cloak as I plant myself in the room's center, legs spread wide, unmovable. "That's not why I'm here. Not exactly."
Ammar's patience snaps visibly, his jaw clenching. "Girl, I've heard enough from you. Every word from your mouth is poison. Don't waste any more of my time!"
My parents gesture frantically—Father pointing toward the door, Mother's eyes pleading. Leave, their bodies scream. Leave before you destroy us all.
The words burn up my throat like swallowed coals. "I want to take her place."
The silence falls like an executioner's blade. The fire crackles. Wind rattles the walls. No one breathes.
"I, too, have known no man." Each word drops into the silence like stones into deep water. "Let me be the sacrifice. I'm older, stronger. The gods would surely prefer—"
"Zahra!" Mother shrieks, leaping to her feet. "Think of your household, your responsibilities!"
"Who will manage the stores through winter?" Father demands, his voice rising to match Mother's panic. "Who will tend the animals in the cold? Count the grain?"
"You are a grown woman!" Mother's hands shake as she gestures wildly. "You're meant to marry, to lead a household, to—"
"Our family needs you!" Father moves toward me, but I step back. "Leila is young, untested. But you—you're essential to our survival!"
"Essential?" I laugh, harsh as a crow's cry. "You mean valuable. Worth more in marriage negotiations than sacred oil."
Ammar raises one hand. My parents fall silent instantly, dropping back like chastised dogs.
He studies me with the intensity of a hawk evaluating prey. The firelight dances in his eyes, turning them amber, predatory. Long moments stretch while he considers, rocking slightly, weighing options I cannot guess.
"Your rebellion has led you here," he says finally, each word measured, calculated. "To serve the tribe's welfare after all. Such unexpected... dedication."
He rises from his seat, circling me slowly. I force myself to remain still while he evaluates this new offering.
"My son has much to learn yet," he continues, voice thoughtful now, almost amused. "This arrangement might serve better. When he's truly ready to lead—proven through trials, not merely age—he can choose his own bride."
Rafi shifts for the first time, but his expression remains blank as winter ice.
"Perhaps by spring's arrival, he'll find someone more suitable. Or perhaps he'll wait a few years for your sister to bloom into womanhood. A leader can afford patience when choosing his bride."
Bile rises in my throat at the casual cruelty, the way he discusses Leila's future while planning my death.
"You're certain?" Ammar moves back into view, searching my face for weakness.
"I am."
"Your parents object." He gestures at their stricken faces. "This disrupts many plans."
"The gods care nothing for human plans," I reply, meeting his gaze steadily. "They want purity, devotion. I offer both."
Ammar nods slowly, decisively. "I accept."
"I also agree." Rafi's voice cuts through the room, flat and emotionless. He stands, shadows peeling away from his frame. "It should be her."
The words strike harder than any blade. Relief crashes into betrayal—my sister will live, but at what cost? How could you, you bastard?
My parents surge forward, mouths opening in protest, but Ammar's voice cuts through: "My decision is final."
The words echo with absolute authority. Mother collapses back, weeping. Father's face turns the color of old ash.
I flee before their fury can catch me, before their tears can weaken my resolve.
The morning air bites like teeth, but I barely make it twenty steps before footsteps pound through snow behind me.
"Stop." Rafi's hand clamps on my shoulder, spinning me around.
"Don't touch me!" I wrench away, stumbling backward. "You agreed. You stood there and agreed like I'm nothing more than livestock for slaughter."
"You think I want this?" His control cracks, voice dropping dangerous and low. "If I refused leadership, if I showed any weakness, Marzuq would take my place within a day."
"So you choose murder instead—"
"Marzuq has already promised to sacrifice three virgins if given power!" The words explode from him. "Three, Zahra. To prove his devotion surpasses my father's. To show the gods his complete dedication."
"Noble arithmetic—three deaths prevented by allowing one." I step closer, close enough to smell the leather oil on his training gear. "My death for your throne. I hope it's worth your reign."
Something snaps behind his eyes. His blade hisses from its sheath, and suddenly cold steel presses against my throat.
"How dare you speak like that to your future leader?" The words crack like ice, his control fracturing. The blade's pressure increases, not enough to cut but enough to command silence.
But then something shifts. His rigid posture wavers, and the mask cracks further.
"You think this is about the throne?" His voice roughens, the blade's edge kissing my skin without breaking it. "You think I care about power while you're—"
He cuts himself off, jaw clenching. The blade trembles against my throat.
After days of silence, he's finally speaking to me. Finally close enough that I can feel his breath in the frozen air, his hand steady on the blade's hilt. Almost touching me.
Pain flashes across his features. The blade drops.
"I'm trying to save who I can," he says quietly, sliding the weapon back into its sheath. "If you'd let me."
"By agreeing to my death?"
"By accepting what cannot be changed." His hand rises as if to touch my face, then falls. "Three weeks become two, Zahra. Use them wisely."
He turns and walks away, leaving me standing in snow that suddenly feels colder than death itself. His footprints mark a path back to the village, back to duty, back to the throne that will cost my blood.
I watch until he disappears between the huts, then sink to my knees in the snow, the morning sun mocking me with its weak warmth.