As it was every year when the winter festival was held, a moment of silence was observed for those who had not made it through the harsh winter. The entire village gathered in the square, bundled in heavy furs and wool, their breath visible in the cold air as they stood solemnly around the frost-rimmed shrine of Dialos erected the day before. Heads were bowed, and not a sound broke the stillness except for the faint crackle of a fire.
This year, eight souls had passed on—a mixture of disease, the cold, and age sending them to the great halls where, according to village belief, they would be received warmly by their ancestors. The elder read their names aloud, his voice steady but heavy with grief, each word carrying the weight of loss. As the final name was spoken, the crowd remained silent as a priest of Dialos stepped forward to the front of the crowd.
the priest was cloaked in ceremonial robes of deep green and white, representing the cycle of death and renewal. One by one, small urns containing the ashes of the departed were handed to him by grieving family members or close friends. The priest accepted them with a solemn bow, murmuring a quiet prayer to Dialos, the god of the cycle, for safe passage of their spirits to the great halls of the afterlife. The urns would be buried later that day in the village’s sacred grove, where generation upon generation of villagers rested beneath the tall pines
When the last urn was handed over, the elder raised his hands, his voice carrying through the cold, still air. “We remember those who walked beside us, who braved the winters as we do now, and whose strength and wisdom remain with us. May their spirits find peace in the great halls of our ancestors, and may we honor them by enduring as they did. Let us carry their memory forward in all we do.”
The villagers murmured softly in agreement, many bowing their heads once more before the elder lowered his arms, signaling the end of the solemn proceedings. “Now,” he said, his tone lightening just enough to break the tension, “we turn to what they would have wished for us: to live, to laugh, and to find joy in the days ahead. Let the winter festival begin.”
A ripple of movement swept through the crowd as the square transformed almost instantly. The once-silent space was filled with the sounds of life—laughter, the shuffling of feet, and the hum of conversations. Musicians began tuning their instruments in a corner of the square, their lively notes a stark contrast to the somber ceremony moments before. Merchants called out, offering hot spiced cider, fresh bread, and roasted meats, the aromas mingling in the air and drawing hungry villagers toward the stalls.
Sitting at the edge of the square, Calder watched as the villagers celebrated. The bonfires roared, the music swelled, and laughter echoed through the cold air. Yet, not everyone was swept up in the revelry. Along the edges of the square, others stood quietly, their faces shadowed by their hoods or the flickering firelight.
Calder’s gaze drifted over the gathered figures, their postures varying between casual indifference and tightly wound anticipation. He wondered how many of them, like him, were waiting for the competition to be announced—and how many were simply waiting for something to happen in general. A sense of restlessness hung in the air, barely masked by the sounds of celebration.
As his thoughts churned, Calder reached into his pocket and pulled out his skinning knife. He inspected the blade under the firelight, running a thumb along its edge. He found that the small act helped ground him, though his mind was already running ahead, planning his route into the woods and weighing his chances against the others who might enter.
The sudden clap of a hand on his back jolted him from his thoughts. He looked up to see Otto standing beside him, a broad grin on his face and a smoked piece of what smelled like Venison in one hand.
“Figured I’d find you brooding over here,” Otto said, tearing off a bite of the meat and chewing loudly. “What, the music and cider, not your style?”
Calder smirked faintly, slipping the knife back into his pocket. “Just thinking.”
“Ah, dangerous,” Otto quipped, settling onto the bench beside him. “Let me guess—about the competition?”
Calder raised an eyebrow but said nothing, which only made Otto’s grin widen. “Called it,” he said, holding out a piece of the smoked meat. “Here. You’ll need your strength if you’re planning to run around the woods for the rest of the day.”
Calder took the offered food with a quiet thanks, though he couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped him. Otto had a way of lightening even the most somber moments, a skill Calder was grateful for more often than he cared to admit. Together, they sat and watched the square, the tension of the crowd mingling with the festivities as the competition drew closer.
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Calder raised the smoked meat to his mouth, the scent making his stomach rumble in anticipation, but before he could take a bite, a shadow fell over him. He glanced up, his brow furrowing as he recognized Dietrich, the village chief's son, standing before them.
Dietrich was, for all intents and purposes, a rat. Though he carried himself with the confidence of his father’s position, his sharp features, narrow eyes, and the constant smirk on his face made him look as though he’d been caught in the act of stealing something. His clothes were finer than most in the village, his fur-lined cloak hanging just low enough to drag against the snow, but there was an arrogance about him that made it clear he thought himself above those around him. Behind him stood two older men, both stocky and dressed in furs lined with decorative stitching—likely hunters or laborers from prominent families in the village. Their arms were crossed, their expressions neutral but watchful, as if waiting for their cue to act.
“Well, if it isn’t the hunter and his blacksmith lackey,” Dietrich said, his voice smooth but laced with condescension. His arms were folded as he regarded Calder and Otto with a faint smirk.
Otto was the first to respond, leaning back casually on the bench, his grin unwavering. “Dietrich. Always a pleasure. Did the chief send you over to bore us into submission, or is this a personal visit?”
Dietrich’s smirk faltered briefly, but he recovered quickly. “Just making my rounds,” he said, his tone cool. “You know, meeting the competition.”
“Meeting, or sizing up?” Calder asked. He set the smoked meat aside, his posture straightening as he met Dietrich’s gaze.
Dietrich’s smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Call it what you like. I just wanted to see who thought they had a chance against me. Word is you’re planning to join the competition, Calder.” His tone turned pointed. “Wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.”
Otto snorted, sitting forward now. “Embarrass himself? You mean the way you embarrass the chief every time you open your mouth?”
One of the men behind Dietrich shifted, his arms uncrossing as he took a half-step forward, but Dietrich raised a hand to stop him. “Easy,” Dietrich said, his eyes still locked on Calder. “I’m just saying—it takes more than luck and a little skill to win this. You’re not hunting rabbits out there.”
Calder held his gaze, his expression unreadable. “Good thing I’m not hunting you, then.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Otto couldn’t hold back a bark of laughter. Dietrich’s smile twisted into a scowl, but he said nothing. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel, gesturing for his men to follow.
“Enjoy your festival,” he said over his shoulder, his tone clipped. “While it lasts.”
As Dietrich and his entourage disappeared into the crowd, Otto leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Well, that was fun. I think he likes you.”
Calder picked up the smoked meat again, shaking his head. “Not enough to let me eat in peace.”
Otto laughed, clapping him on the shoulder again. “Forget him. By the end of this festival, you’ll have more to brag about than he ever will.”
Calder opened his mouth to respond to Otto’s remark, but the sharp, resonant sound of a horn blowing through the square cut him short. The deep, echoing note silenced the crowd almost instantly, heads turning toward the source. Near the central bonfire, the village chief stood flanked by the elders, his towering frame wrapped in heavy ceremonial furs that marked his authority. Beside him, a herald raised the horn once more, the call drawing everyone’s attention.
Villagers began gathering around, leaving their stalls and conversations to cluster near the bonfire. As the crowd thickened, a man weaving through it began calling out names, gathering those who had signed up for the competition. Calder’s name was among them. The man approached with a curt nod and motioned for him to follow. Calder glanced at Otto, who grinned and clapped him on the shoulder one last time.
“Good luck out there,” Otto said, his voice laced with encouragement and humor. “Don’t let Dietrich trip you on the way out.”
Calder smirked faintly but didn’t reply. With a nod, he followed the man toward the growing group of competitors assembling behind the chief. Around him, he noticed familiar faces—hunters and trappers he knew by reputation, a few older villagers who looked confident, and even a couple of younger ones who seemed nervous but determined. Dietrich was there too, his smirk firmly in place as he eyed the others like prey.
Once everyone was gathered and the crowd had settled, the chief stepped forward, his voice deep and commanding as he addressed the village. “As you all know, the winter festival is a time to celebrate our resilience, our strength, and our unity. But it is also a time to prove ourselves, to show the world that even in the harshest winters, this village endures.”
His gaze swept across the crowd, pausing briefly on each of the competitors. “This year, we are holding a competition,” the chief continued, his voice rising above the crackling fire. “Those behind me have chosen to participate, each vying to bring in the largest and most impressive animal for the village feast.”
There were murmurs of agreement and excitement from the crowd, but Calder’s attention sharpened as the chief raised a hand for silence. “The rules are simple,” he said. “You have until sundown tomorrow to bring in your catch. The largest animal, as judged by myself and the elders, will win.”
This much, Calder had expected. What came next, however, caught him completely off guard.
“And this year,” the chief announced, his voice booming with a gravity that silenced even the faintest whispers, “the winner will not only earn the honor of providing for the feast but will also be named my heir.”
A stunned silence fell over the square, so heavy that even the crackle of the bonfire seemed muted. Calder’s mind raced as he glanced around, seeing the shock mirrored on the faces of those around him. Dietrich himself was slacked-jawed as he stared at his father. The crowd erupted into a flurry of whispers, disbelief, and excitement rippling through them like a wave.
The chief pressed on, his voice steady and unyielding. “This decision has not been made lightly, but it is time to secure the future of this village. Let the hunt determine who among us has the strength, skill, and courage to lead.”
As the murmurs grew louder, the chief raised his arms again. “You have thirty minutes to prepare. We will see off our competitors at the edge of the village. May Dialos guide your hands and your hearts.”
With that, the gathering began to disperse, villagers breaking off into clusters as excited chatter filled the air. Calder turned, scanning the crowd until his eyes locked with Otto’s. For a moment, neither of them said anything, but the look they exchanged spoke volumes.
“Holy Shit”.