THE RITUAL OF WINTER

### **Ritual of Winter**

The wind came early that year, sharp and unforgiving, carrying the scent of frost before the snow even fell. In the village of Eldhollow, nestled between jagged peaks, the first night of winter was always greeted with trepidation. Some whispered that the mountains themselves were alive, and that their cold breath carried judgment. Others simply feared the Ritual—the ceremony that had been performed for generations, though few could say why.

Eira had grown up in Eldhollow hearing stories of the Ritual of Winter. She remembered her grandmother’s voice, quivering as she told of the last girl chosen for the ceremony twenty years ago. That girl had returned, changed. Eyes like frozen lakes, silent as snow, carrying secrets that no one dared question. Eira had always assumed the stories were exaggeration—until the day the Selection came.

The Selection happened at dusk. Every ten years, the village council gathered, their faces hidden behind masks of carved wood, and called the name of the chosen one. This year, it was Eira.

“Eira Thorne,” the council intoned in voices that seemed to echo from the mountains themselves.

A hush fell over the crowd. Children clutched each other, and even the dogs stopped barking. Eira’s heart pounded. She knew what came next—though she had never dared think it would be her. The council handed her a silver medallion, etched with symbols she did not recognize. It was heavy in her palm, cold as ice.

“You know what must be done,” the eldest councilor said. “The Ritual will not wait for fear.”

Fear. Eira felt it now, a cold knot that began in her chest and spread outward. She had trained for this, in her own way—learning the old songs, the stories hidden in the runes etched into the walls of her home, the herbs that warded against frostbite—but she had never imagined the Ritual itself.

That night, guided by torchlight, the villagers led her to the edge of the forest where the mountains began to rise. The snow had not yet fallen, but the ground was hard and white, frozen over. At the forest’s edge stood a circle of stone, ancient and weathered, as if the mountain itself had grown them. The council positioned her in the center.

“You must call the Winter Spirit,” the eldest said. “Only it can grant the village warmth and safety for another decade.”

Eira swallowed. “And if I fail?” she asked.

The council exchanged glances, but no one answered. She had been told, over the years, that failure was not an option. Those who faltered became part of the mountain’s memory, their names whispered only in fear.

Alone, in the center of the stone circle, Eira held the medallion against her chest. She closed her eyes and began the chant her grandmother had taught her, a song in the old language, one she had practiced only in secret. At first, nothing happened. The wind at the mountains’ edge whistled through the stones, mocking her. The forest seemed still, but alive—watching.

Then the snow began. At first, it was light, a scattering of flakes that melted before they hit the ground. But the song grew stronger, and so did the snow. It swirled around her, catching the torchlight in sparkling fragments. The wind lifted, carrying voices with it—low, melodic, almost human. Eira’s fear faded, replaced by awe. Something answered.

The medallion glowed, a pale, blue light, and warmth spread through her fingers. She felt the pulse of the mountains, the slow heartbeat beneath the frozen earth, and understood that the Ritual was not merely a ceremony—it was a pact. The village had offered a single life, not as sacrifice, but as conduit. The mountains’ cold was absolute, relentless, but it could be negotiated through devotion and courage.

Hours passed—or perhaps minutes; time no longer mattered. The snow fell steadily, wrapping the world in white silence. Eira sang, and with each verse, the glow of the medallion grew, reaching outward like a tether to the forest, the peaks, the wind itself. Finally, the voices quieted, leaving only the steady pulse of life beneath the frost.

The council approached as dawn broke. They looked at her, eyes wide, faces lined with both reverence and relief. Eira was changed, as the stories had warned. Her hair had turned a pale silver, her skin luminous under the rising sun. And yet, she felt alive in a way she had never known—connected to the mountains, the village, and the winter itself.

“You have done well,” the eldest said. “The village will endure. You have learned the truth of the Ritual.”

“What truth?” Eira asked.

“That winter is not the enemy,” he said softly. “It is the keeper of balance. Life and death, growth and decay—it chooses its own rhythm. We merely honor it, guide it, and remember that we are small, yet necessary.”

The villagers returned home, leaving Eira at the edge of the stone circle. She stayed there long after they were gone, feeling the snow settle around her boots. She realized that she had become part of the story, not merely a participant but a keeper of the mountain’s secret.

Over the following days, she walked through Eldhollow differently. She could see the frost’s patterns on windows and know the wind’s direction before it arrived. She could hear the whisper of branches, the subtle rumble of shifting snow, the heartbeat beneath frozen earth. The village noticed changes too—the crops would last a little longer, the streams would freeze more gently, and the cold winds that usually bit at hands and cheeks seemed tempered.

But there were nights when Eira dreamed of the Ritual again, seeing the faces of those who had come before her, their eyes frozen in pale blue, their songs mingling with the wind. She understood now that the Ritual was not a burden—it was a responsibility. One she would carry, in silence and solitude, for as long as the mountains demanded it.

Years passed. Every winter, she returned to the stone circle to sing the old song, to call the winter spirit, to honor the pact. And every winter, the village flourished—not untouched by hardship, but protected, guided, and remembered.

The story of Eira and the Ritual of Winter became legend in Eldhollow, told to children as both warning and promise. That winter, she had learned what few could understand: that courage is not the absence of fear, but the choice to sing, even when the cold is absolute. That life persists, even in the harshest frost, and that some rituals are eternal because they remind us of our place within the world—not above it, but a part of it.

And when the wind howled at the edge of the mountains, carrying the cold over Eldhollow, those who listened closely could hear the faintest song, a voice brave enough to call the winter itself.