***DISCLAIMER: This work is inspired by Dacian and Thracian mythology, but it is not a loyal historical representation of their cultures, names of places, people, and traditions.***

   Avizina's room was modest. The walls, made of rough-hewn stone, were covered in a thin plaster that had begun to crack and peel in places. The single window was small and square, framed in dark wood and fitted with a plain curtain. A small bed sat in one corner of the room, its wooden frame creaking softly as it bore the weight of its occupant. The mattress was stuffed with straw, and covered in a thin sheet that had been patched and mended in places.

   A small bedside table stood nearby, cluttered with a half-burned candle, a wooden comb, and a small leather-bound book. In the harsh and rugged land of Dacia, only a few privileged people had the opportunity to learn to read and write. But Avizina was fortunate enough to have a father who had learned these skills and was determined to pass them on to his daughter.

   Opposite the bed was a small hearth, set into the wall and covered in a layer of soot that betrayed its frequent use. A small pile of logs sat nearby, ready to be thrown onto the fire when the temperature dipped too low. The world outside was bleak and unforgiving, the biting winds of winter howling like wolves.

   Avizina's eyes fluttered open. She stretched her limbs, feeling the stiffness of the previous day's work in her muscles. She shivered as she sat up, her dark hair in disarray. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she pulled herself from her bed and made her way to the washroom. Looking into the mirror, she sighed as she took in her reflection. She had her father's sharp cheekbones and strong jawline, but her mother's soft, delicate eyes. A deep shade of brown - alert and focused. It was the only thing she had left of her, the only memory of a woman she had never known. 

   Avizina slipped out of her rough-spun nightshirt and pulled on her simple dress, made of wool dyed a warm brown. She laced her tattered boots and combed her fingers through her long, dark hair. The sun was ascending over the edge of the earth, heralding the start of a new day.

***

   Avizina stood over the hearth, tending to the bubbling and hissing pots atop the flames. She stirred the stews with a wooden spoon, the fragrant steam wafting. Slow-cooked meats, earthy vegetables, and pungent spices mingled together were carefully selected for their ability to sustain a hardy warrior's physique and morale. For in times of war, it is often these small things that keep the flame of hope alive - the comforting warmth of a hot meal, the soothing words of a kind soul, a moment of respite from the ravaging chaos. 

   She had long ago been tasked with feeding a small yet mighty group of soldiers. Those brave few who had taken up the sword to defend their kingdom would return from their patrols each evening, their armor dented and scarred, their faces etched with weariness and the weight of their duty. But Avizina awaited them readily. Her father, once a skilled fighter and a respected teacher of the ancient ways of Zamolxis, now lay frail and bedridden. But his spirit remained strong, and the soldiers knew that he still held their admiration and respect. She would carefully set out bowls and plates, pouring generous servings of stew and porridge for the weary soldiers.    She smiled and chatted with them, regaling tales and parables that lifted their spirits. Her father had taught her well, not only in the ways of the kitchen but in his religious teachings. And so, even as she cooked, Avizina whispered prayers to the gods, asking for his protection and guidance for those who fought for their people.

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   And the soldiers ate, their hearts uplifted. And they paid their respects to her father, who had trained their fathers and brothers before them and remained a beacon of wisdom and strength even in his weakened state. 

***

   Rholedav was the name of their kingdom, ruled by the iron will of Queen Faline. Her dominion stretched far and wide, with the Common Woods serving as a dividing line between them and the kingdom of Mantdav, those who seek to bring ruin upon Rholedav. In those very woods, Avizina witnessed Queen Faline's unyielding nature. She presided over the public execution of a Mantdavian trespasser. Her cold eyes bore witness to the swift justice she had wrought upon the enemy, a warning to all who dared to cross her. 

   High above their realm, shrouded in mist and clouds, stood the towering peak known as "Zamolxis' Crown". It was said that the ancient god himself had placed his touch upon the mountain. Deep within its might, a portal of great power and protection lay hidden. It was whispered that it held the key to the favor of the gods themselves and that whoever could unlock its secrets would be granted unimaginable power. The portal was shielded by ancient spells and wards, crafted by the most skilled and powerful sorcerers who had long since passed into legend. 

   As Rholedav's enemies plotted and schemed, Queen Faline knew that the only way to secure her kingdom's protection was to open the portal. But the task was not a simple one. The last living sorceress, who alone held the secret to the portal's opening, had been kidnapped by the rival kingdom of Mantdav. 

***

   Avizina awaited the arrival of the soldiers with a heavy heart. She knew that their duties were strenuous, but she had hoped that her cooking and her tales would raise their energies. Yet, as the soldiers entered her home, their faces were grim, clouded with an aura of despair. 

   She sensed that something was amiss. She offered them the finest fare her humble home could afford, hoping to coax their hearts and minds out of their gloom. But the food lay almost untouched, and the soldiers remained silent, their thoughts consumed by the unspeakable horror that had befallen them. 

   The commander of the group of soldiers stood up and turned to Avizina. 

"We need to speak with your father," he uttered his request. His voice was firm, with a tinge of sorrow. 

   Her heart sank at his words. She knew that whatever the soldiers had to say could not be good news. She nodded slowly and led them to her father's chamber.

   As they entered, Avizina's father looked up weakly from his bed. His face was etched with pain. The soldiers approached him and knelt down by his side. The commander bowed his head slightly before speaking:

"Our beloved Eldin," he paused, as if trying with all his will to not go on. "I am afraid we have come with grave news. Ten years have gone by, the sacrifice has been chosen, and it is you who have been selected."

   There was a moment of stunned silence as Avizina's father absorbed the soldier's words. He was a devout follower of their religion. He knew the importance of the sacrifice. The news, although difficult to hear, did not seem to shake his resolve. 

"I see," Eldin said quietly, his face solemn. "I am prepared to fulfill my duty to the gods."

   Avizina's voice caught in her throat as her father's words echoed through the chamber. For a moment, she was certain she would never be able to speak again. The room seemed to spin around her, blurring into a meaningless haze of light and shadow. She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to see one of the soldiers, his face full of sympathy. He said something to her, but she couldn't hear it. She could hear nothing but the sound of her racing heart. Tears welled up in her eyes as she thought of the horror that awaited her father. 

   The ritual would be gruesome, with him thrown onto the points of five spears. If he perished, it was believed that he would be welcomed into the halls of Zamolxis and the god would bestow his blessings upon the land. But if he survived, it was said that a dark period of misfortune would befall the kingdom. Even so, this was a mere postponement of his inevitable demise. The injuries were so grievous that few, if any, ever fully recovered. With their bodies broken and twisted, death would eventually claim them, plunging the land into a time of misfortune regardless. 

   The ruthless hand of fate itself has chosen Eldin as a sacrifice. His name was called out by the high priest of Rholedav, who had received a divine message from the gods. Eldin would be the one who would bring great blessings to the lands and appease the gods. 

   Yet, even in the face of this grim fate, he refused to show any weakness or despair. Instead, he accepted his destiny with stoic resignation, knowing that he was serving a higher purpose. 

   As she left her father's chamber, Avizina could hear him whispering prayers to the gods, accompanied by the men he once trained.