Dorin
The last autumn leaves have surrendered to the chill, their frozen remnants scattered like forgotten memories upon the ground. This can mean but one thing: the Winter’s Maiden Offering approaches—a ritual born of fear and desperation, whispered among ignorant, trembling lips. This grotesque tale was woven by inferior men and aggrandized by each generation until the truth was buried beneath their delusions.
Under the light of the first full winter moon, a maiden will be sacrificed—a lamb led to slaughter, her life offered for protection they believe only I can give. They offer her to me, the “blood-thirsty demon” who haunts the forest’s edge, lurking beyond their fragile borders. This dark tradition, this wretched pact, is their feeble attempt to stave off a hunger they scarcely understand from wandering too deep into their village. It is absurd; sacrificing innocence to ward off the darkness…and they think me the monster.
I accept their offerings, not out of desire, but out of advantage. Their ridiculous gestures grant me solitude; that is all I’ve ever sought. Each decade, I indulge in their ritual, allowing them to believe their myth, for it keeps their eyes turned away from me and my world. I’ve allowed this falsehood to live for centuries, this fiction they cling to with desperate hands. I let them think they have bought themselves preservation by discarding their chosen maiden into my grasp.
This will mark the fiftieth offering in my five-hundredth year. Fifty innocents, each untouched by sacrifice, delivered to me in the hopes of appeasing a demon of their own invention. They scour their bloodlines, searching for one pure of sacrifice, believing their choice wise, yet failing to grasp the truth of what I am. I am no mere monster to be pacified by ritual; I am the shadow of their deepest fears and the embodiment of their darkest desires.
The winds of winter draw near, carrying the weight of the village’s anticipation. Soon, their abandoned maiden will come to me, her fate sealed by the hands of oppressive men too cowardly to face their own shadows. They do not know the true fate of their offerings, but the line between predator and prey blurs with every sacrifice. For while they cower in fear of the beast they believe I am, they fail to see that I am both their savior and their doom.
Marian
The fallen leaves crunch loudly under my feet, an echoing reminder of the grim fate that awaits one of the village girls. Any girl but me, that is. I was free of the barbaric offering. My fate had been sealed on the last Winter’s Maiden Offering.
Every bloodline need only offer a singular maiden, a sacrifice that absolves their family from the ritual’s cruel cycle. My family’s debt was paid—my sister and then my father soon after. His heart could not bear the weight of her sacrifice, crumbling beneath the grief that hollowed him out like a dying tree. His spirit withered daily until there was nothing left of the man I once knew. His death was slow, more torment than release. He was a father undone by the loss of his firstborn; his light was snuffed out by the sorrow that consumed him. I was spared, untouched by the shadow that hangs over the others like a noose tightening with every passing day.
Yet, as the winds bite sharper, carrying the chills of the upcoming night, I cannot shake the feeling that fate is not so easily outrun.
“Marian!” my Mother calls out to me, her voice distant and fading. I hadn’t realized that my stroll had suddenly turned into an expedition through the woods. Villagers did not set foot in the woods, but I couldn’t help myself. The curiosity that gnawed at me every day since those monsters offered up my sister to the unknown terror in the forest grew stronger as the first full winter moon drew nearer.
I never saw what became of her—my sister. Elias Bearth, the village head, and his soulless clergy dragged her to that cursed altar beyond the first tree line, their hands like shackles around her wrists. They stole her away before I could embrace her one last time, before I could even say goodbye. Her screams, muffled by the wind, still haunt me. I was left standing, helpless, as they offered her up to the demon. Her fate was sealed by the very men who claimed it was for our preservation.
Truthfully, deep down in the darkest corners of my heart, I envied her—envied her release from the prison we called life. To be born a woman here was to be born a slave, bound to the whims of ignorant men who ruled over us like tyrants. My mother and I no longer had my father to protect us; it was just the two of us now, teetering on the edge of survival. I knew it would not be long before they came for our home, before everything we had left was ripped away.
“Where have you been?” my mother scolds, her voice frantic as I walk through the door.
“I went for a walk,” I lie, knowing she couldn’t bear the truth.
“You best not have stepped foot in those woods again, Marian.”
“I assure you, Mother, I did not.” She sighs heavily in relief.
“Help me get the soup on,” she says, returning to the hearth.
“The leaves have frosted over,” I say quietly, my voice barely a whisper but terrifying enough to suddenly cause her to drop her wooden spoon on the floor. The clatter echoed loudly in the quiet room. She picked it up slowly and cleaned it off, continuing to stir as if my revelation had not reached her ears. “Did you hear what I said? The leaves—”
“I heard you, Marian,” her voice trembles. “That means nothing to us, not anymore. Our family has paid our price…more than we owed.”
“Do you truly believe that?” I press, waiting to hear any conviction in her voice.
“I have to,” she whispers solemnly. “Now wash up and finish cutting the onions. When the soup is done, I need you to bring some to Sarah and her boys.”
The rich aroma of the soup consumes our small home, momentarily cloaking me in warmth, like the comforting embrace of the summer sun chasing away the bitter chill of winter.
“Here,” she says, handing me the heavy pot, pulling me from the warmth of my fleeting daydream and thrusting me back into our frigid reality. “Straight there and straight back. No detours. The hour is too late for you to be wandering.”
“Yes, Mother,” I reply, taking the scalding pot from her hands with a steady grip.
“Careful,” she cautions. “That soup could melt the flesh of men.”
“I will.”
“Marian,” she calls after me, her tone firm but edged with concern. “Straight home,” she reiterates, the warning lingering in her voice.
I nod in agreement and begin my walk down the narrow road, accompanied by the darkness of night. The distance to Sarah’s home is short, and I arrive sooner than anticipated. As I raise my hand to knock on her door, a man’s voice startles me.
“Give me that!” he barks, his tone rough and commanding.
“Please, Sir!” Sarah cries out, desperation clinging to her words. “That was my husband’s!” I can hear her boys crying in the background.
“You’ll pay with this, or you’ll pay another way.” The menace in his voice sends a chill down my spine, and Sarah’s screams echo through my body, igniting a primal urge within me. Without thinking, I push through the door, driven by bold urgency.
The man has her pinned against the wall, one hand wrapped tightly around her throat.
“Get off her!” I scream, my voice shaking with fury. The man turns to face me, surprise etched into his features.
In a flash of instinct, I hurl the scalding hot soup directly at him. It splashes against his face, and his hands fly to his eyes as he howls in agony. His skin blisters and reddens, turning a sickening shade of purple as grotesque boils begin to bubble up on his already repulsive form.
“Sarah!” I turn toward the stark white woman pinned against the wall, her fear palpable in the air. “Take the boys and flee to your mother’s home!” She remains frozen, trapped in a haze of shock. “Sarah!” I cry out, my voice crashing through the stillness, pulling her back to reality.
“W-What? M-My mother’s?” she stammers, confusion and terror filling her wide eyes.
“Now!” I push, urgency flooding my words. The man writhes on the floor, his curses a venomous hiss in the dim light.
With a sudden burst of clarity, Sarah snatches her boys and rushes toward the door, but before she flees, she casts a desperate glance back.
“Thank you, Marian. Thank you,” she breathes, her eyes glossy with gratitude.
“Go!” I insist, my voice sharp as a blade.
“You will pay for this, you vile wench!” the man snarls, fury twisting his features as he reaches for me, his hands clawing at the air like a dying man grasping for salvation. Just then, the thunder of hooves echoes loudly through the room—a forewarning that the clergy is approaching.
“She’s in here!” the man shrieks, pain clinging to his words. The clergy forms a grim wall before the door. “Seize her! Take her now!”
Before I can react, three men, including Elias Bearth, close in on me. Their intentions are as dark as the shadows that cling to the corners of the room. I know my odds of escape are faint, so I brace myself, refusing to fight back against the inevitable.
A crushing blow lands at the back of my head, pain exploding through my skull like a forest fire, and the world begins to fade to black. The encroaching darkness swallows the muffled sounds of my struggles.
I blink awake, but my eyes open to a dingy, blurred room, illuminated only by the flickering candlelight against the damp stone walls.
I lie on a cold, unyielding surface, the throbbing pain in my head a cruel reminder of my plight. As I slowly turn my head, my vision begins to sharpen, revealing the dire reality of my surroundings. I’m trapped within the cruel confines of a cell. Imprisoned.
Days stretch into an agonizing blur, and I lose all sense of time. When I wake, I find nothing but bowls of lukewarm porridge and stale bread waiting for me—my only companions in this desolation. Every moment, thoughts of my mother consume my mind. Does she know her daughter is still alive?
Sounds of footsteps come from the shadows.
“Marian Quill,” Elias Bearth’s voice rings out through the dark, cold and demanding. “You have turned the clergy into a mockery.”
“I did no such thing,” I protest, gripping the frigid iron bars as if they were the only thing tethering me to sanity.
“Brother Gerald may never see again and seeks retribution for your transgressions.” My heart plummets at his grim revelation. Each decade, they promise that only one will be taken, that her blood will secure our future. But promises, like leaves in winter, easily dissolve into nothing.“You shall be offered to the demon beneath the light of the first full winter moon,” he declares, and his words crash over me like a storm, obliterating any hope I had clung to. The image of my mother’s face flickers before my eyes.
“My sister fulfilled my family’s debt at the last offering,” I say, forcing the words out through a throat tight with defiance. “She was the sacrifice, and my bloodline was spared.”
Elias smiles, a twisted thing that turns my stomach. “In light of the quincentenary of the Winter’s Maiden Offering, we believe that a blood-relative of previous sacrifice will serve as a more… potent offering. A double sacrifice ensures not only our survival, but our prosperity for generations to come. You should feel honored, Marian. Your death will secure the future of this village.”
“Bastard,” I snarl boldly, my voice echoing through the cell like the cry of war. “You will regret this. Mark my words, Elias Bearth—your grave will be dug with these two hands and my face will be the last thing that you look upon before death claims you.”
He chuckles darkly, stepping even closer, so close I can see the malice burning in his eyes.
“Do not spew that witchcraft here,” he sneers. “Your fate is sealed. Your path unchanging. You will meet your end, Marian, just like your sister—beneath the full winter moon.”
“My fate belongs to me,” I spit back. “No man decides it.” My spirit ignites with a ferocity I was unaware I possessed.
Elias’ eyes gleam with cruel amusement, but he says nothing more. He simply turns, his boots scraping against the stone floor as he walks away, leaving me in the suffocating silence of the cell.
The rules of men are fickle, shifting like the autumn winds, and I have grown tired of their inconstant urges. Their words are hollow, void of truth, crumbling under the weight of their duplicity. Nothing is certain, and I stand powerless in the shadow of their tyranny. All I can do is pray. Pray that whatever follows my sacrifice is not my end, but my beginning.
