Dark Whisperer

Selis Kitezh hated his life.

Outside his decrepit shack, the wind howled through the crumbling gaps in the poorly converted log shed, biting through his threadbare robes like a thousand needles. The structure was a mockery of a shelter, more a storage shed than a home. The original logs, some rotting, others cracked from age, barely held together under the weight of snow. The roof sagged dangerously in places, and parts of the interior were exposed to the elements—his meagre possessions damp, cold, and gathering frost. There was no warmth here, no comforting touch of hands that cared, no woman’s hand to turn this forsaken place into a home. It was as neglected as he was. A shack, much like him, that failed at its purpose.

Inside, the only thing holding off death’s embrace was a meagre pile of discarded furs, tattered and thin, gathered from the few who took pity on him. They barely kept him from freezing each night. A small fire smouldered weakly in the pit near the door, its flickering light doing little more than casting shadows on the damp stone floor. He had long forgotten the warmth that others knew so casually. His body had adapted, survived on the edge of frostbite.

The ground inside the shack was worn smooth in places from his pacing—endless, repetitive movement. His heavy footsteps had traced deep grooves in the earth over the years, carved by his restless wandering and muttering.

“How often?” he muttered, as his boots crunched along the well-trodden path. “How many times must I speak, and still, no one listens?”

He stopped, glancing at the brittle walls as though they were mocking him, his thoughts spiralling into dark corners. No one was here to witness him. No one cared. He was free to rant, free to let the words spill out, but they echoed back at him—empty, unanswered, like everything else in his life. He had nothing to lose by speaking aloud. “No one listens. No one ever listens.”

Selis’s pacing stopped abruptly. His eyes scanned the interior of the shack for some small tasks, something to give his body purpose and quiet the storm in his mind. The firepit's coals were fading, the weak flames flickering. He sighed, groaning at the effort it would take to chop wood. But he needed to do it. Without it, even his pitiful life would end.

With a resigned grunt, Selis limped toward the stack of half-rotted wood outside his door. He grabbed the rusted axe, its blunt edge glinting dimly in the pale winter light. His body moved slowly, worn down by years of bitterness and neglect. He raised the axe, the effort causing him to stagger as his crippled left leg buckled under the sudden weight.

The first strike came down weakly, barely biting into the log. The second swing was no better. His body contorted awkwardly, and he cursed as pain lanced through his bad leg, nearly sending him sprawling. His groan escaped into the still air. The wood refused to split, standing firm against his feeble efforts. He stood, regaining his feeble stance.

Each strike of the axe was like life itself mocking him. The world had always mocked him.

Selis paused, wiping the sweat from his brow, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He thought he could hear the town, in the distance, bustling in their ignorance. They didn’t care about him. They never had. Even now, with food running scarce and the elements gnawing at their bones, they refused to heed his warnings, refused to acknowledge his wisdom. They brought him scraps. All they ever did was leave him to rot in this shack, bringing him the bare minimum, never the respect he deserved.

He raised the axe and swung again, but the blade barely made a dent in the log. The wood remained stubborn, mocking his efforts.

“Insults,” he spat into the snow, his face twisted with bitterness. “That’s what they bring me.” The words came out in a low growl, as he forced another futile swing at the log. This time, the effort nearly knocked him off balance, his crippled leg buckling slightly under the strain. “And still, they think they know better. Fools. They’ll regret it when the lake takes them all.”

With every thought, his anger simmered, warming him more than the furs or fire ever could. They ignored him, but he would outlast them all. The lake would prove him right. And then, perhaps, they would finally see.

Again, he swung the axe, but the blade missed the centre of the wood entirely, knocking the log over with a dull thud. His hands trembled from the effort; his knuckles white as he gripped the handle tighter in mounting frustration. The force of the misaligned strike sent him stumbling forward, barely catching himself before toppling over.

Grimacing, he bent down, the movement sending a sharp, familiar flare of pain up his back. He winced, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts as he reached for the fallen log, resetting it with a shaky, trembling grip. The ache in his back was far worse—persistent and gnawing, a reminder of how much his body had betrayed him over the years.

Straightening up as best he could, Selis clenched his jaw and raised the axe once more, bracing himself for another futile attempt.

The great Selis Kitezh, brought to this. Forgotten. Mocked. How dare they.

He recalled a time, not long ago, when the town council had begrudgingly allowed him to sit in their meetings. Not out of respect, but because tradition dictated the presence of a shaman. Tradition, not admiration. They had no choice back then. But now? Now they had cast him aside. They’d pushed him out when his thoughts—his truths—became too radical, too disturbing.

And whom did they turn to instead? Daithi. That brute of a man, with his broad shoulders and simple mind. Strong, reliable Daithi, the townsfolk’s favourite. He was nothing more than a mule in human form.

“He’s nothing!” Selis spat, the venom of his words searing the cold air around him. “Nothing but a fool with a strong back!” His voice cracked as his face contorted in a mixture of rage and despair.

He tried again, putting all his force into the next swing. The axe bounced off the wood uselessly, the log refusing to split, just as the villagers refused to see him for what he truly was. His body shook with the effort, the axe handle slipping in his sweaty grip as frustration bubbled over.

“He knows nothing of the gods, nothing of the power within me!” His muttering had grown louder now, nearly a shout, as he paced the snowy ground, dragging the axe behind him. The blade bit into the dirt, leaving a jagged line in its wake.

Selis scoffed at the memory of the council’s betrayal. They had always underestimated him. Always seen him as weak—first because of his father, then because of his limp. The mighty hunter, his father, had been well-respected. A man of strength and skill, everything Selis wasn’t. Growing up, he had been invisible, a shadow trailing after his father’s legendary figure. The disappointment. The weak link.

He raised the axe again, fury building in his chest, his body trembling as he readied for a final, desperate strike.

And then, after the accident—after his leg was maimed in the woods—any hope of admiration had been extinguished. His father had stopped looking at him altogether, as though he were already gone. The town council had done the same. They treated him like an obligation, a nuisance they had to tolerate. But they never saw what he could be—what he was owed.

Mid-swing, Selis froze. The blunt axe hung awkwardly in the air, trembling above his head. He heard footsteps—hesitant, crunching over the fresh snow. Slowly, he turned, his blue-green eyes narrowing as he spotted a small figure approaching.

A town child with red cheeks and tattered clothing stepped closer. The boy held a small parcel wrapped in a stained cloth—another miserable offering. He was trembling, his breath coming out in puffs of fear and his wide eyes flicked between Selis and the ground.

Selis’s fury began to bubble, his blood running hot despite the biting chill in the air. How dare they- how dare they send a child to offer him these pathetic scraps as if that somehow softened the insult! As though the innocence of youth could mask the contempt behind their offering. His grip on the axe tightened.

The boy stopped a few feet from him, his small hands shaking as he set the parcel down in the snow, then took a hesitant step back. He looked up at Selis, unsure whether to expect thanks or violence.

“What is this?” Selis snarled, his voice sharp. The boy flinched, his entire frame trembling.

“I-it's for you, from the town..." the boy stammered, taking another step back, his eyes wide with fear.

“For me?” Selis scoffed, stepping forward with an almost exaggerated limp, his thin frame looming over the child. “You think this is for me?” His voice was rising, seething with contempt. “I'm worth more than this filth!”

The boy’s lip quivered, and his eyes filled with tears. His feet shifted in the snow as though preparing to flee, but he held his ground for one more desperate moment, hoping this would be over soon.

Selis took another step, his axe hanging menacingly in his hand, his thin body casting a long, twisted shadow in the snow. His breath came out in ragged clouds as he sneered down at the boy. “You tell them I don’t need their charity. Go on, tell them. I don’t need their scraps. I—” He paused, rage boiling over, “I deserve more!”

Tears spilled from the boy’s eyes as he turned and ran, his small feet kicking up snow in his frantic retreat. Selis watched him go, his chest heaving with the intensity of his outburst. The fury burned in his veins, but as the boy’s form disappeared into the distance, something else settled over him. Something heavier.

The wind howled again, wrapping around him like a cruel embrace. Selis stood there, the axe still in his hand, staring at the small parcel left behind. His stomach growled, but pride—damned pride—kept him rooted in place, his fingers twitching as if unsure whether to reach for the meagre offering or cast it away.

He stared out into the desolate landscape, feeling the bitter cold of the wind, but more than that, feeling the bitter sadness of his life—the hollow ache inside that no amount of food could fill. The bitterness in his soul deepened, festering like an open wound that had long since started to rot.

“I deserve more…” he whispered to himself, barely audible over the wind. “I deserve more than this.”

But no one was there to hear him. Just the snow, the wind, and the desolation that mirrored the man he had become.

They didn't see him. Not yet.

But they would. Soon enough, they would all see.

And they would regret ever thinking he was weak.

Selis Kitezh watched the child disappear into the distance, his vision blurred by the air and the sting of resentment burning in his chest. The town lay sprawled below the hill where his shack crouched like a forgotten animal. From here, he could see the stone buildings standing proud and weathered, their ancient facades of smooth white stone lined with veins of frost.

In his eyes, the people had done nothing to deserve more than misery. Injustice, he thought, sneering. They were the ones who should suffer, not him. They had forgotten him, discarded him like a useless tool. When the town had needed guidance, when the omens turned dark, they sought Daithi and his false comforts. He was supposed to be their shaman, their guide. The town was floundering because they’d forgotten him. It was his duty to speak on their behalf, to act as their bridge, but they didn’t want him. No, they feared his knowledge. They rejected the truths he tried to teach them.

And look at what that had brought them.

They struggled with their crops, their children grew weak, and the chill from the lake crept closer every winter. He could see it in the strained, hungry faces of the townspeople—the desperation. Yet still, they mocked him with their paltry offerings. Insulting him with their pity. He deserved more. So much more.

But he couldn’t think on it any longer. His stomach gnawed at him, a dull, constant ache that had grown too loud to ignore. His hands were trembling—not just from the chill, but from hunger. The kind of hunger that blurs the line between pain and desperation. His mind raged at the thought of stooping himself to eat the scraps they’d left behind, but his body had other plans. Instinct called to him, relentless, primal. He couldn’t resist it any longer.

With a bitter curse, Selis knelt by the bundle, carelessly dropping his axe, his body moving before his mind could stop it. His hands hovered over the stained cloth, fingers twitching as if some part of him still fought against the act. Slowly, he unwrapped it, his movements jerky and hesitant, like a man pulling back the layers of his own shame. Each fold revealed more of the meagre offering, and as the final piece of cloth fell away, his heart sank at the sight.

Withered roots, barely worth the effort of chewing. A half-mouldy chunk of bread, its edges dark with decay. And slivers of dried meat, so thin and brittle they could have come from the carcass of a starved animal. It was barely enough to keep a child alive, let alone a grown man.

He stared at the food, his body trembling with need, but his mind recoiling in disgust. For a moment, he hesitated. He wanted to throw it all away, to refuse it as the insult it was. But his body, weak and ravaged, had other ideas. His stomach growled again, sharp and insistent, like the gnawing of a beast inside him.

Selis’s composure broke. His hand shot forward, fingers closing around the slivers of meat. Without thinking, he shoved them into his mouth, his teeth tearing at them savagely. He barely chewed, his throat convulsing as he swallowed too soon, too fast. There was no dignity in this, no restraint. He was like a starving stray, thrown a bone and gnawing at it before it could be taken away.

The bread came next. The mould clung to his tongue, sour and rancid, but he forced it down, his mind screaming at him to stop, but his body refusing to listen. He stuffed the withered roots into his mouth after that, chewing only enough to avoid choking, the fibrous strands scraping his throat raw.

When the last crumb was gone, Selis froze. He stood there, panting. His frantic, animalistic needs indulged. His hands shook as they hovered over the empty cloth, his breath coming in ragged puffs that clouded the air around him.

The realisation crashed over him. He had let himself go—again. He had given in to the hunger, to the animal within him, like some wild thing scrabbling for survival in the snow. Shame coiled in his chest, tight and suffocating.

“No,” he hissed, disgusted with himself. His hand shot to his mouth, wiping it furiously, as if he could erase the act from existence. His fingers rubbed his chapped lips raw, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, the stain of his weakness remained. He had broken again, like a recovering drunkard who had taken the drink, knowing full well the price of it.

His thin frame trembling with rage, disgust, and hunger. He was a prisoner to his own body, and there was no escaping it.

He knew what he had to do.

It was always the same. His punishment.

Without a word, Selis stood, his body heavy with the weight of what he had done. His limp was pronounced now, each step a sharp reminder of his frailty as he moved toward a small place beside his shack. His steps were methodical, familiar—he had walked this path many times before. This was where he came after moments of weakness. To purge himself. To rid his mind of shame.

As he reached the spot, his breath came out in ragged puffs, clouding the frigid air before him. Selis paused, his fingers trembling as they fumbled with the rough cords that held his robes together. His joints protested with sharp, stabbing pain as he struggled to pull the layers of tattered fabric over his head. He gritted his teeth, his face twisted in a grimace as the robes finally slipped free, leaving him in nothing but his undergarments, his skin pale and exposed to the biting wind.

The frigid air bit into his flesh immediately, sharp and merciless, but Selis barely flinched. He had known this pain before. The price he paid for his weakness.

With a grunt of pain, he knelt on the hard, frozen ground, positioning his crippled leg beneath him as best he could. The snow was unforgiving beneath his knees, but Selis welcomed the discomfort. His hands moved mechanically, his mind retreating into the rhythm of the task he had created for himself, the one he had repeated so many times that it had become a form of release. His fingers dug into the nearby snow, scooping up a handful of the icy powder.

He rubbed it against his skin, harsh and unyielding, scrubbing at his face, his chest, his arms—scrubbing until it stung, until it sank deep enough to numb his senses, to drown out the hunger and self-loathing. This was preferable to the gnawing emptiness inside him.

His breath came out in uneven gasps, his teeth chattering uncontrollably, but he kept going. He needed this. He needed to feel something other than shame. The snow burned like fire against his skin, and his muscles trembled, but still, he pressed the frozen powder into his flesh, as though punishing himself would somehow wash away his failure.

He breathed heavily now, his body quaking with exhaustion. His limbs, numb and tingling, moved slower, until finally, he stopped. His hands dropped into his lap, his fingers stiff and raw, the act complete. Useless as it was, it was done.

But there was another one. A real ritual. One that mattered.

Selis rose slowly, his body aching from his weakness and the self-inflicted punishment. Nearly toppling forward as he stood, his balance fragile at best. He reached for his discarded robes, the thin fabric stiffening with frost as he pulled them back over his frail body. Then, his fingers found the walking stick leaning against the shack, the worn wood harsh to the touch. He leaned heavily on it as he limped toward a nearby clearing in the woods, the place he always returned to when he sought the old ways.

From there, through the bare branches of the trees, he could see the lake in the distance, its vast, frozen expanse shimmering in the pale winter light. The Lake of Lamentations—sacred to his people and sacred to the gods he served, however much he cursed them in his moments of weakness. The wind whispered across its frozen surface, a faint, mournful sound, as though the lake itself grieved.

The clearing was familiar, the snow here disturbed only by the marks of previous rituals, the faint outlines of symbols carved into the earth beneath. The snow had been cleared in patches, revealing the old markings—the circles and lines of ancient rites long forgotten by most of the village. But not by Selis. He alone remembered. He alone had kept the faith.

Selis reached into his robes, his frozen fingers closing around the small wooden idols he carried with him always. Each idol had been painstakingly carved in the likeness of the deep ones, their faces twisted and ancient, each one imbued with a presence far older than the village, older than the lake itself. His hands moved with practiced precision, laying the idols out in a circle around him, their hollow eyes staring up at the sky, watching.

The wind seemed to quiet as he worked, the pain easing just slightly, as though the very air recognised the sanctity of the moment. The snow fell more softly now, its flakes drifting gently down around him, the world holding its breath.

Selis knelt in the centre of the circle, his posture no longer broken and weak, but composed, reverent. His lips parted, and from them came words—deep, measured, not his own. They were ancient words, a chant that had existed since time immemorial, passed down through generations of shamans before him. The sound of it was low, a rumble that reverberated through the trees, through the earth itself.

The wind carried his words, his plea, toward the lake, toward the gods.

"Spirits of the lake, hear my voice. Watcher in the deep, hear my plea. I am your vessel; I am your servant."

Selis’s voice cut through the still air, the chant low and measured, carrying a weight that settled over the clearing like a shroud. The bitterness that had filled his words earlier was gone, replaced by something quieter, more solemn. As his words echoed, something stirred—though Selis himself did not notice. The snowflakes, delicate and pristine, seemed to shimmer faintly as they fell within the circle. The air itself felt cleaner, crisper, almost as though the wind had softened to listen.

He raised his hands, palms open to the sky and continued.

"Spirits of the water, spirits of the stone, I call upon you in this hour of need. Hear me, ancient ones. Guide me. Protect this village, even as they reject me."

The chant deepened, his voice taking on a rhythmic cadence as his body swayed gently in time with the words. His movements were deliberate, precise, each action a part of the ritual that had been passed down through generations of shamans. The wooden idols at his feet seemed to glow faintly, their twisted faces catching the last rays of the setting sun. There was a soft creaking from the direction of the lake, the ice shifting slightly, as though responding to his voice—a soft groan from the deep, acknowledging him.

But Selis was blind to it all. He was lost in the ritual, in the flawless execution of every syllable, every gesture. His breath was visible in the air, misting around him, swirling gently as though caught in a subtle, unseen current. He raised his hands higher, feeling the pull of something—something old, something vast—that seemed to respond to his plea. His lips moved faster now, his voice gaining strength, the words falling from him as though they were no longer his own.

"Watcher in the water, guide us. Watcher in the depths, shield us. Spirits of the old ways, listen to my cry."

His voice rose, repeating the last verse, the chant echoing through the trees. The wind shifted. Selis stood tall. His body trembled now, not from weakness or hunger, but from the force that thrummed beneath the surface of the ritual. He began the repetitive chant, his words weaving like a thread through the air, tying him to the lake, to the earth, to something older than time itself.

"Guide us. Shield us. Watch over us."

He repeated the chant again, his voice low, almost a whisper, but filled with power. His hands were raised high, fingers splayed toward the lake, as though drawing strength from its frozen depths. And then, something happened. The idols around him flickered with a faint, bluish light, just for a heartbeat—so brief that had Selis been watching, he might have thought he imagined it. The lake groaned again, the sound deep and distant, like the stirring of something far beneath the ice.

"Guide us. Shield us. Watch over us."

The air grew heavier, charged with an energy that Selis didn’t fully understand. His body swayed, the rhythm of the chant guiding him, and with each repetition, the world around him seemed to still—time itself holding its breath, waiting. His breath slowed, his mind clearing after the worship and purging rituals. The constant fog that weighed on him, the bitterness that gnawed at him, seemed to loosen, if only for a moment.

It felt… different. But Selis didn’t notice any of this. He didn’t see the snowflakes shimmering like tiny stars around him, didn’t hear the soft hum of the lake’s frozen surface shifting in time with his chant.

For the first time in weeks, the tight knot in his chest eased. The pain of his failures, the weight of his isolation, all of it felt… distant, pushed aside by something larger than himself. His voice grew softer, his body trembling as the chant slowed, the ritual nearing its end.

"Guide us. Shield us. Watch over us."

With those final words, the energy around him seemed to exhale, the charge dissipating as the snow began to fall normally again. Selis let his hands drop to his sides, his breath coming out in short, ragged bursts. The ritual was done.

But as he stood there, in the stillness that followed, Selis couldn’t help but feel it—that faint stirring in the air, the shift in the snow, the echo of something deep within the lake.

Something had heard him.

Selis knelt, slowly he reached for his idols, gathering them one by one. The usual sharp pain in his leg and back was there, but... muted, almost distant. He didn’t notice it at first, too caught up in the familiar routine. But as he stood, there was no need for the usual struggle. His limbs felt lighter, as if the stiffness in his joints had loosened just slightly.

He grabbed his walking stick out of habit, not realizing that his weight didn’t lean on it as heavily as before. His steps were surer, his body responding with a faint strength that had not been there for what seemed like years. The wind still bit at his skin, but it didn’t sap his energy the way it usually did. Not now.

Without thinking much of it, Selis limped away from the clearing, his mind still buzzing with the lingering effects of the ritual. His thoughts were a chaotic mix of frustration, bitterness, and the hard monotony of survival. But something tugged at him—a small, nagging awareness of a task left unfinished. The axe.

He squinted through the falling snow, scanning the ground near where the boy had brought him food. There it was, lying where he had carelessly dropped it in his anger. He approached it. A dull, rusted tool, as useless and worn as he felt most days. With a grunt of effort, Selis bent down, gripping the handle with his stiff fingers. The weight of the axe felt lighter than it should. He dragged it behind him, the head carving a shallow trail in the snow as he made his way back to the woodpile beside his shack.

It had become a ritual in itself—the daily battle with the wood, the struggle that mirrored his own. The axe felt like an adversary, mocking him with each failed strike, a reminder of his dwindling strength. He stopped by the pile, hefting the axe in his hands again, letting out a long, shaky breath.

There was no reason to expect anything different from the usual struggle. It had been a losing battle for days now—the wood too stubborn, his arms too weak.

And then something was different.

He raised his arms, hefting the axe higher than before. Focus rushed into him—an eerie clarity, fuelled by a sense of purpose and something else. Something unnatural. Power coursed through his limbs, steadying his hands, as if some invisible force was guiding him. His muscles no longer trembled with weakness but tightened with newfound strength.

Selis brought the axe down with a sudden, vicious force, the blade slicing through the air with a sharp whistle. The impact was solid, undeniable. The blade struck with a clean, crisp sound, and to his utter shock, the log split cleanly in two, the halves falling apart as though they had been waiting to obey his command.

He blinked, frozen in place, his hands still gripping the axe handle tightly. His heartbeat faster for a brief moment, but the feeling passed as quickly as it had come. He stood there, staring at the neatly halved log. It didn’t make sense.

Selis scoffed, shaking his head. "About time," he muttered, as if the log had finally stopped resisting. As if the deep ones had finally stopped mocking him. He’d always known it wasn’t him at fault—it was these cursed tools, this miserable, twisted wood. He had simply worn them down, made them submit.

The satisfaction was short-lived. He raised the axe again, lining up another log, and swung with the same force, expecting another perfect cut.

But this time, the axe bounced off with a dull thud, barely grazing the wood. His arms wobbled under the weight of the strike, and his muscles trembled again—weak, tired. He swung once more, but the log held firm, mocking him again. The clarity in his mind clouded, the frustration creeping back in.

The weakness flooded back. Whatever fleeting strength he’d felt was gone.

Selis stepped back, scowling down at the pile of wood as if it were the wood itself that had turned on him. The clean strike felt like a distant memory now, a fluke—a momentary slip.

His hands tightened around the axe handle, his knuckles white with strain. "Just another cursed reminder," he muttered, his breath misting in the air. His legs trembled as he steadied himself, the weight of exhaustion pulling at his limbs. It had been dumb luck. Nothing more.

Each swing was weaker than the last, the familiar ache settling back into his bones. His breath came in shallow gasps, his pain gnawing at him with renewed intensity, as though the gods themselves were laughing at his pitiful efforts.

Selis cursed under his breath, staring down at the unyielding logs, bitterness rising again. Whatever brief spark had empowered him during the ritual was gone—if it had even existed at all. He had nothing, once again. They played their cruel games, dangling hope only to snatch it away.

He swung again. The axe bounced off, leaving the log unmarked. The impact sent a jarring shock through his arms, but the wood remained stubborn. His mind, as always, slipped back into its familiar bitterness. He was nothing but a relic of the past, discarded and left to wither. There was no strength left in him. No power to change his fate.

Only the endless cold.

Life here had always been like this—hard, unforgiving. The lake that sprawled out beyond the town had been the source of both sustenance and fear for as long as anyone could remember. The stories of the beings in its depths were whispered from generation to generation, ancient, powerful beings who governed the waters, the seasons, and the lives of those on the shores. They worshiped these gods, though their devotion was intertwined with terror. Here, in this land where crops barely grew and winter seemed eternal, it was easy to believe something else governed their lives. When all you had was yourself, when survival itself became a prayer, superstition wasn’t just reasonable—it was necessary.

Selis knew this better than anyone. He had been taught the ways of the lake, the old rituals, the appeasements that kept them at bay. Yet, the village never saw him for the shaman he truly was. They treated him as a bitter, broken man. And perhaps, in time, that was what he became.

But could they blame him? He had no family, no children to carry his name. His shack was falling apart, open to the elements. The town threw him scraps, as if he were some wild animal clinging to life in the snow. When you’re left to rot like that, how could you not curse the world? How could you not look to the gods and demand justice for the pain they inflicted? But justice never came.

He struck the wood again. The axe skidded off, nearly wrenching itself from his trembling hands. His knuckles whitened around the handle, the thin skin stretched taut. His arms were shaking now, weaker than before. The faint warmth he had felt after the ritual was gone, leaving only a hollow chill in its place. He wanted to scream—at the wood, at the snow, at the wind for mocking him. But even his screams would be swallowed by the empty sky.

His vision blurred, and for a moment, the world around him shifted. The woodpile vanished, replaced by a memory. He was no longer standing outside his shack. He was a boy again, on the hard floor of his father’s workshop, his small hands desperately clutching at something broken—a small idol made from driftwood. His hands shook as he tried to gather the scattered pieces.

“...those things will never feed anyone,” his father’s voice rumbled, though the words were distorted, as if muffled by water. “The useless junk that they are!”

Young Selis flinched at the sound, his chest tightening with shame. He could still see the sneer on his father’s face, even though the man’s features were blurred. He felt the sting of failure, the crushing weight of being weak. The idol slipped from his hands again and again, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never piece it back together.

The memory clung to him, dragging him down into the pit of his own mind. But then, with a sudden jolt, he snapped back to the present. The snow was falling harder now, swirling around him. The woodpile stood there, stubborn and unyielding, as though mocking him with its silence. His breath came in ragged gasps, visible in the freezing air. Whatever fleeting strength the ritual had granted him was gone, leaving only the gnawing bitterness. The logs were unscathed. He was, as always, powerless.

With a strangled cry, Selis let the axe fall from his hands. It landed in the snow with a muted thud. Rage bubbled over. He kicked at the pile of logs, sending them toppling over in a messy heap. His curses mingled with the wind, furious and empty. He swung his walking stick wildly, striking the ground, the snow, anything within reach. His bitterness, his frustration—all of it spilled out in a blind, unthinking fury. The stick struck a rock hidden beneath the snow, splintering the wood, and the jarring impact reverberated through his bones.

The snow, the town—everything had conspired against him. Everything. He kicked again, but his weak left leg couldn’t take the strain. It buckled, and Selis stumbled forward, collapsing into the snow. The cold bit at his face, the ground hard beneath him, but he lay there, too spent to move.

For a long moment, he simply lay there, his breath ragged, his body trembling. The snow pressed in around him, the wind howling like a hungry animal. His frail body shivered violently, and the ache in his leg flared into searing pain. But worse than that was the heaviness in his chest—a weight that crushed him from within, more oppressive than the cold or the hunger. It was the weight of futility. Of knowing that no matter what he did, no matter how many rituals he performed or how many prayers he muttered, nothing would change. Nothing.

Pitiful.

As the wind swirled around him, Selis lay there, alone in the snow, his body weak and broken. His eyes, blurred by frost, stared blankly ahead. The gods weren’t watching. They never had been. And for the first time, a dark thought crossed his mind—perhaps, if he stayed here long enough, the winter would claim him, and finally, he wouldn’t have to fight anymore.