The first snow of winter settled on the mountains like a whispered promise—cold, beautiful, and fleeting.
Helastine knelt by the hearth, stirring a pot of medicinal broth. The scent of bitter herbs and mountain roots filled the small shrine, mixing with the smoke from the crackling fire. She blew a stray strand of hair from her face—its pale length now marked with faint blue highlights, added by Paedyn's curious hands—her fingers stiff from grinding herbs all morning.
"You'll ruin your eyes, reading in this dim light."
She didn't need to turn around to know the priest was smiling. His voice, though weaker than last winter, still carried the same warmth it had all her life.
"Says the man who taught me to read by candlelight," she shot back, but her hands moved anyway—closing the weathered book beside her and shifting closer to the fire.
A soft chuckle. Then a cough. Then a cough that didn't stop.
Helastine was at his side before his frail body finished trembling. Her hands braced his shoulders as he hunched over, a handkerchief pressed to his lips. When he pulled it away, the fabric was stained with red.
"It's nothing," he murmured, tucking the cloth away before she could snatch it.
Liar.
She swallowed the lump in her throat. "You need to rest."
"I need to finish this." His gnarled fingers brushed the half-carved wooden figurine in his lap—a small fox, its tail curled playfully. "For your birthday."
Her chest ached.
Twenty-one winters. Twenty-one little carvings. A rabbit when she was five, a wolf when she turned ten, a knight in armor at fifteen. Each one lined up on the shelf above her bed, each one a piece of him she could hold onto.
"You have time," she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. "Winter's just begun."
The priest's hands stilled. When he looked at her, his eyes—still so kind, so alive despite the sickness eating him from within—held a truth she wasn't ready to hear.
"Helastine," he said softly. "Come here."
She knelt beside him and rested her head on his knee, just like she had as a child. His fingers carded through her hair, the way they had when she woke screaming from nightmares, when she scraped her knees climbing trees, when the world felt too cruel and he was the only shelter she knew.
"Do you remember," he murmured, "when you were seven, and you tried to chase a bear cub out of the garden?"
A wet laugh escaped her. "You scolded me for an hour."
"And then you didn't speak to me for three days." His thumb brushed her cheek, catching a tear she hadn't realized had fallen. "My stubborn girl."
The fire popped. Outside, the wind whistled through the shrine's charms—paper prayers she'd written for him every morning, even though she didn't believe.
"Father," she whispered, the word cracking.
His hand stilled in her hair.
"You must go to Maruliya Temple child."
No. She clutched the fabric of his robe. Not yet. Not ever.
"I won't leave you."
But his breathing had already deepened, the exhaustion pulling him under. As his hand slipped from her hair, Helastine did something she hadn't done since childhood—she pressed her lips to his knuckles, a silent plea to a god she didn't trust.
Don't take him.
The fire burned low. The snow continued to fall.
And for the first time in her life, Helastine prayed.
------
The shrine had never been so full, yet Helastine had never felt so alone.
Villagers from the valley below crowded the small wooden temple, their boots tracking mud and melting snow across the sacred floors they'd rarely visited while the priest lived. They brought offerings—dried meats, woven blankets, jars of honey—as if gifts could mask their years of neglect.
"Such a shame," an old woman muttered, clutching her prayer beads. "The mountain saint was too kind for this world."
"And the girl?" A man's voice, low and curious. "They say she's never even seen a town. What will become of her now?"
Helastine stood motionless by the altar, her back to the crowd. She heard them. Of course she did. Their whispers slithered through the room like smoke—about her age, her beauty, her uselessness without the priest to guard her.
Twenty-one. Unmarried. A white-haired witch who talks to the wind.
Her fingers curled into fists.
A hand touched her shoulder.
"Child." The village elder, his face wrinkled like old bark, offered her a cup of tea. "You should rest. We'll prepare the—"
"No." She stepped away, his touch burning like a brand. "I'll do it."
The priest had washed her fevers away, had held her hands when they bled from sword practice, had whispered stories until her nightmares faded. She would be the one to wrap his body in the sacred white shroud. She would be the one to brush the snow from his eyelids before they closed forever.
No one else.
Night fell.
The visitors left, their hollow condolences lingering in the cold air. Alone at last, Helastine knelt before the freshly dug grave beneath the ancient pine—the tree where the priest had taught her to carve her first wooden bird.
Snowflakes caught in her lashes. The mountain air stung her lungs.
"You liar," she whispered to the undisturbed snow. "You promised to teach me the stars next winter."
No answer came but the wind.
Her hand plunged into the snow, fingers numb, until she found what she'd buried earlier—the priest's last carving, half-finished. The little fox, its tail forever mid-swish.
She clutched it to her chest.
Then, for the first time since childhood, Helastine screamed. A raw, broken sound that startled the crows from the trees. She screamed until her throat burned, until the villagers below surely crossed themselves against the mountain's wailing spirit.
When her voice failed, she pressed her forehead to the frozen earth.
"Fine," she rasped. "I'll go."
Dawn came.
Helastine stood at the shrine's gate, her pack heavy with dried food, the priest's knife, and twenty-one wooden figures wrapped in cloth. Behind her, the only home she'd ever known sat silent, its charms still fluttering like trapped ghosts.
She didn't look back.
The snow crunched under her boots as she took the first step toward the northern road—toward Maruliya Temple, toward answers, toward a fate she never wanted.
Somewhere in the trees, a fox barked.
Helastine walked on.