The second week brings a cold that cuts through wool and fur like blades. Ice forms inside our dwelling overnight, and even the heartiest men wrap themselves in multiple layers before venturing out. Yet they call for me constantly—the chosen one, the blessed virgin sacrifice who carries divine fortune through winter's cruelest days.
"Zahra, the kilns grow weak!" The potter women intercept me as I cross the frozen square. "Bless them so our fires burn through the killing frost."
"The healer needs you," a boy interrupts, hopping from foot to foot in the cold. "A difficult birth—the mother fears the baby will freeze before drawing breath."
I follow them all. White robes draped over my winter clothes, silver bells at my ankle singing with each step through the snow, their crystalline chime echoing off ice-covered walls.
The sound follows me everywhere now—a constant reminder of what I've become.
At the birthing hut, I place my hands on the laboring woman's belly, while wind howls outside.
"The virgin sacrifice blesses this child," the midwife announces when the baby finally arrives, pink and screaming against the cold. "Born under divine protection."
"Will my son remember you?" the mother asks through exhausted tears, clutching my hand. "When you're gone?"
"Tell him stories," I manage through the tightness in my throat. "Make me sound braver than I am."
The warriors' training ground pulls me like a lodestone. I shouldn't go—know I shouldn't—but my feet carry me through the snow-draped paths anyway.
The men practice despite the brutal cold, their movements keeping blood flowing, weapons ringing against shields.
They stop when they see me.
"The blessed one honors us," someone calls out, and they form a respectful circle, their breath forming a communal cloud in the frigid air.
Standing among them in my white robes, I know how I must look—dark hair gleaming like polished obsidian against the endless white, amber eyes catching what little sunlight penetrates the clouds, olive skin somehow luminous despite winter's pallor.
The cold has brought color to my cheeks, and the white fabric transforms me into something between spirit and woman.
"Look at her," I hear one warrior murmur. "Like the moon walking among us."
"Rafi!" Another warrior, drunk on morning wine to fight the cold, claps him on the shoulder with a mittened hand. "You've lost a prize greater than any battlefield victory. You two would have made beautiful children—strong sons with your shoulders, daughters with her grace."
It felt like the floor quietly stepped away. Memory crashes over me—that summer before everything changed, when we were barely fifteen.
The other young people had convinced us to play at being married, there in the warm grove where wildflowers grew.
Rafi had woven me a crown of daisies, placed it on my head with such tenderness.
"My wife," he'd said, grinning.
The others pretended to be our children, and we'd acted out a whole life in an afternoon—him returning from hunts, me welcoming him home, both of us corralling our "children" for imaginary meals.
I'd loved him even then. Before he became his father's shadow. Before he proved that order matters more than lives.
"Shall I bless the warriors?" I ask, forcing my voice steady.
"Please." The training master gestures. "We need all the fortune possible for the winter raids."
I move through their circle, touching each man's shoulder. "May your blade strike true. May your shield hold firm. May you return home through the snow."
When I reach Marzuq, my hand hesitates. His dark eyes glitter with that dangerous charm that makes foolish girls forget his reputation for lies.
His hand shoots out, gripping my waist, yanking me against him. The crowd gasps.
"What have you decided about my proposal?" His breath burns against my ear in the frozen air. "Time runs short."
"You dare touch the sacred one?" The training master starts forward.
"Release me," I say, but Marzuq's grip tightens, fingers digging through the layers of fabric.
"Think practically," he murmurs. "One night, and you live. Your precious dignity means nothing to a corpse."
The training ground erupts in angry shouts, warriors pressing closer, their faces red with cold and fury.
"You cannot touch her without permission!" someone bellows. "It defiles the sacrifice!"
"The gods will curse us all!"
"Get your hands off her!"
Through the chaos, I see Rafi push through the crowd. Snow crunches under his boots as he stops just within striking distance. His jaw clenches, muscles coiled, but his voice emerges controlled as always.
"Release her, Marzuq."
"Or what?" Marzuq pulls me closer, his fingers splayed possessively across my waist. "Will you fight me, future leader? Spill blood on sacred ground?"
"You test dangerous boundaries." Rafi's hands remain at his sides, though I see them trembling—with rage or restraint, I cannot tell. "Obey, or face punishment."
"Assuming the gods accept your tainted sacrifice." Marzuq's smile cuts like glass. "She burns for you, anyone can see it. Hardly pure in thought, is she?"
"Remove your hands," Rafi says, each word dropping like ice into water, "or I'll have you stripped and staked in the snow until you beg for mercy."
"Such civilized threats." But Marzuq releases me with a mocking bow. "The future leader uses words, while real men use fists."
I stumble back, my whole body shaking with fury. The crowd watches, holding their collective breath.
"Are you well, blessed one?" the training master asks.
I look at Rafi—really look at him. He stands there, hands still at his sides, having won through threats and position rather than passion. Always a diplomat. Always controlled. Never fighting for me, only for order.
"The sacrifice is angry," someone whispers. "Look at her face."
"She stares at our future leader with disappointment."
The whispers spread like wildfire. I force my features into serenity, painting on a bright smile that makes my face ache.
"May the gods strengthen all your arms against winter's trials," I announce to the gathering. "May you defend our tribe with honor."
Then I flee.
My feet carry me beyond the training ground, past the last huts, into the shelter of snow-laden pines.
Only when I'm certain no one can see do I let myself collapse against a tree, bark rough even through my winter layers.
The tears come hot and fast, freezing on my cheeks before they can fall. Each breath burns in my chest.
I wanted him to tear me from Marzuq's arms with violence.
I wanted to see his knuckles split against that arrogant jaw, blood spattering the snow.
I wanted him to love me enough to lose control, to choose me over propriety, to fight like a man who couldn't bear another's hands on what should have been his.
Instead, he used words. Threats. Politics.
"Always the careful leader," I whisper to the uncaring pines. "Never the man who loved me in that summer grove."
The wind carries away my words, and I'm left with only the sound of those cursed bells at my ankle, singing my death song with every shuddering breath.