Chapter 1
A wisp of light pierces the darkness, the candle flickering bravely against the penetrating night, and then, in a blink, thousands of flames join the first, illuminating the ancient forest in which we are gathered.
Our matriarch stands before the largest Sophos Tree in our village, her arms outstretched, the long white robe she wears blending into the white bark of the tree and the winter snow that blankets our world. Her voice is melodic and firm. "Each light, alone, is nothing. But together, we can outshine the sun."
The villagers chant back, repeating her words.
I'm kneeled before her in my own white cloak, my long dark hair undone and trailing down my back in soft curls. The cold bite of our never-ending winter nips at my ears and nose, and I sniff as quietly as I can and pray to the goddess I do not sneeze and ruin the ceremony.
"Tonight, we baptize Adara Alexander with the sacred waters of the Ice Rivers. Adara is the flame born in the cold, the defender of humankind, sent to free us from the curse that plagues our land and our people. A Winter Witch, the first to be born in our village in over a thousand years, and the strongest we have ever seen. Our prayers to the goddess have been answered. We have been sent a savior. May the goddess bless Adara," she says.
"May the goddess bless Adara," the villagers respond.
I look towards the ground, focusing my attention on the crust of snow forming over the forest mulch, and she pours the pitcher of ice water over my head. I force myself not to shiver as my hair instantly freezes.
"May the goddess guide her path," she says.
The villagers once again repeat her litany, a chorus of voices adding their magic to the words spoken each year over a new sacrifice.
But this year the words are different.
This year, I'm the difference.
Normally, the chosen one would be selected by lottery. There isn't a family in Willowdale who hasn't lost someone to this annual slaughter. But this year, we all knew I would be the one to go. I came of age last month, just in time to be offered.
But I am not being sent to die like the others.
I'm being sent to kill.
I’ve known it my whole life. Trained. Studied. Prepared. And now it is time.
As she completes the ceremony, I stand to face her, and she pulls me into a hug, kissing both my wet cheeks. "Carry the flames of the sun in your heart, my sweet granddaughter. And come home to me."
Tears sting my eyes as my grandmother releases me and turns me to face our clan. "Tonight, we celebrate the Festival of Lights. Drink, Eat and Be Merry, good people. Our fates will soon turn toward the better. I have spoken."
The crowd cheers, and as I help my grandmother slip her thick cloak over her frail shoulders, someone begins playing a fiddle. I toss my own cloak on, wrapping my wet hair and tucking it away. Then I smile as everyone begins singing the familiar folk song as they make their way back to town.
The candles lit
Darkness outwit
We sing to usher in the dawn
The sun will rise
As winter dies
We sing until the snow is gone
Ho Ho Halliho the light
No No Nevermore the night
Ho Ho Halliho the dawn
No No Winter now be gone
After the first round, harmonies are added and the melodic refrains echoes throughout town, which tonight is decked out with tables laden with food and wine. There will be dancing, entertainment, and all manner of revelry that lasts until morning.
It's normally my favorite night of the year. Even as a child I was allowed to stay up all night, eat whatever I wanted and run wild with the magic of the evening.
But tonight, I will partake of very little, as I need my sleep before my treacherous journey tomorrow. Always, I’ve wondered what it would be like to be on the other side of the merriment. To be the sacrifice, celebrated in glory for one night, only to die the next. Now I know. It is a somber thing even if I’m not going to my death.
My grandmother takes my arm, and we walk slowly together, trailing the others and enjoying the stillness of the cool winter night.
"What if I fail?" I ask, the fear weighing heavy on my soul.
I clutch at the vial that hangs around my neck and feel the warmth of it to the depths of my soul. I have collected a drop of blood from every villager and mixed it with the sap of the Sophos Tree and a crushed petal of a Fire Flower. Legend has it these bold red beauties were a summer flower before the curse, yet they continue to dot the snowy landscape of the mountains to the west even still, and are a symbol of the enduring persistence of hope. The last ingredient was my magic, infused into it over the course of a full moon cycle using a spell I created over many years; the most complicated one I've ever performed. It is now ready, and so am I.
At least, I hope I am.
"You will not fail," my grandmother says softly, her lilting voice a comfort as it has been all my life. "You have the sun's fire in your heart. It will guide you."
We walk the rest of the way in companionable silence, the sound of music and laughter spilling out from the village square, audible even from this distance.
A symphony of night birds sings from the highest branches of the trees, sharing their secrets with one another. What do you see, little birds? I wonder, glancing up into the canopy that shines with moonbeams and twinkles with starlight. What do you hear? And not for the first time I wonder, what will it be like to see the snow melt and the ice crack and then disappear, to see fresh flowers and leaves exposed to the sunlight, glowing in color, iridescent in their brilliance? What will it be like to feel warm from head to toe, without the aid of fire? How will our lives change when we can plow and farm and forage again? When we can support ourselves and use trade for mutual gain rather than survival?
Our entire culture and way of life is oriented around winter, cold, snow. If I do succeed, our village—our whole kingdom—will need to adapt to entirely new lives. We've, of course, heard the stories of summers and autumns and springs in other lands, but those who venture from our village never return. And many of the elders fear an unspoken rule that we are not meant to leave. Few have dared to try since, and so we live on stories and hope.
The year I was born, when it was clear I had magic of my own, the village began preparing for spring. They purchased seeds and wove lighter fabrics for new clothing. They made maps of the best lands for farming, raising cattle, and building on. They gave everything to the hope—the belief—that I would be their savior. Thus, my name. Adara means fire. Alexander is defender of human kind.
It's a big name to live up to, but the moment I was old enough, I began to study the books kept in a locked library and guarded by my family for generations. Books left by the old ones who had magic running in their veins. Books that taught me everything I know about magic.
My bag for tomorrow is already packed. I have a change of clothes, dried meats and fruits, wine, hard bread, and cheese. And I have my herbs, my potions, and my Grimoire. I would never leave home without them, despite taking up valuable space in my pack.
There is nothing for me to do but wait out the night. Still, I must eat, and as we enter the town, the thatched roofs shimmering under the moonlight, the villagers dressed in their most colorful cloaks and scarves, fire pits burning at every corner for light and warmth, it all invites me in, to dine, to smile, to laugh, to enjoy one more night with the people who have bound my heartstrings to them.