The first snowfall began before the entrance had been opened from the pit. Fine flakes drifted lazily through the mountain air, settling on battered shoulders and bruised faces alike. No one seemed to notice. Laughter drowned out the winter wind.
Children scrambled into the arena the moment the elders declared the Games complete, weaving between the warriors as they begged to be carried back to the village on their fathers' shoulders. One little girl tugged at Lothær's wolfskin cloak.
"You promised!"
Lothær looked down.
"Did I?"
She folded her tiny arms.
"You said if you won again, you'd let me wear the Champion's cloak."
Bulrah burst into laughter.
"You've been caught, brother."
Lothær sighed dramatically.
"A chieftain should never make promises before he's had his morning mead."
The little girl pouted.
"So that's a no?"
"It's a very temporary yes."
He unclasped the heavy white cloak from his shoulders and draped it around her. It swallowed her whole. Only her smiling face peeked out from beneath the oversized fur.
"There."
He crouched to her height as best he could.
"But only until supper."
She nodded so enthusiastically the cloak nearly slipped off and then she raced away, proudly displaying it to every child she passed. Bulrah watched her go.
"...You're never getting that cloak back."
Lothær smiled.
"I know."
Warriors carried one another despite the bruises. Old hunters argued loudly over wagers already forgot. Someone had begun singing long before they reached the gates. By the second verse, half the clan had joined in. Bulrah nudged his brother.
"They only sing that one because none of them remember the words to the others."
Bulrah barked a laugh.
"Doesn't stop them."
"It never has." Lothær replied. The brothers followed the rest of the clan through the timber gates. The village had already transformed from it's utilitarian landscape to a place of open warmth.
Smoke curled from great stone fire pits dug into the center of the settlement, carrying with it the rich scent of roasting vyrl and mountain boar. Long tables were being dragged into the snow by groups of laughing hunters while the women arranged baskets of dark bread, smoked fish, and winter berries gathered before the first frost. Children darted between the adults, waving carved wooden axes and reenacting the final moments of the Games.
"I yield!" one shouted dramatically before collapsing into the snow.
His friend planted a boot triumphantly on his chest.
"I am Lothær!"
The crowd nearby erupted into laughter. Lothær covered his face with one hand.
"I don't stand like that."
Bulrah glanced toward the children.
"...You do."
"I do not, don't you start."
"You've been standing like that since you were twenty."
One of the older women overheard them as she carried a steaming pot toward the feast.
"You've stood like that since you were twelve."
More laughter as Lothær sighed.
"I've been betrayed."
The woman smiled warmly as she passed.
"You've been loved."
For a moment… Lothær didn't know how to answer. Instead, he smiled and continued walking. A group of young hunters approached, each carrying fresh cuts of meat across their shoulders. One of them slowed as he reached the brothers.
"Chieftain."
Lothær nodded.
"You fought well today."
The young hunter rubbed the back of his neck as he took to his knee.
"I lasted longer than last year."
"You did."
"And next year..."
The young hunter smiled hopefully.
"...I'll last longer still."
Lothær rested a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"I expect you to."
The hunter grinned from ear to ear before hurrying after his companions. Bulrah watched him disappear into the crowd.
"They all want to be you."
Lothær shook his head.
"No."
"They want someone to become, and that is a far more admirable desire."
Before Bulrah could answer, the low call of a horn echoed across the village.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
The conversations around them quieted almost instantly. Hunters lowered their mugs. Children abandoned their games. Even the proud wolves settled at their masters' feet. Without being told, every clansman turned toward the great bonfire at the center of the settlement. The flames had only just been lit, but already they reached high into the darkening sky. An elderly woman stepped forward carrying a wide stone bowl. Its rim was carved with giant wolves chasing the moon. She knelt before the fire and scattered dried herbs into the flames. Sweet smoke rose into the mountain air. The entire village stood in silence. Lothær bowed his head and Bulrah did the same. One by one, the warriors rested a closed fist against their hearts. The gesture spread through the crowd until every soul in the village stood the same way. The old woman lifted her eyes toward the snow-covered peaks beyond the village.
"All Mother..."
Her voice was quiet. Yet somehow every person heard it.
"...another cycle has passed."
The clan answered together.
"And we endure."
She cast another handful of herbs into the fire.
"For those who hunted..."
"And returned."
"For those who fell..."
"We remember."
"For those yet to earn their place..."
"We will carry them."
The old woman looked toward Lothær.
"Once again… It is your fire now, Chieftain."
Lothær stepped forward. The snow crunched beneath his boots. For a long moment he simply looked around the circle. At old faces, Young faces, Children, Hunters, Families, and finally His family. Then he reached down, took a thick oak log waiting beside the fire, and laid it across the flames. The fire surged upward.
"The mountain gives us shelter."
"The hunt gives us life."
He looked toward Bulrah.
"Our strength..."
Then toward the children who were chasing one another only moments before.
"...belongs to each other."
A murmur of agreement rolled through the gathering. Lothær smiled.
"Eat, my friends and find comfort in your full bellies."
The silence shattered, and cheers erupted. Someone struck a drum. A hunter lifted an entire barrel of mead onto his shoulder to roaring applause. Children immediately resumed chasing one another around the bonfire. Bulrah leaned toward his brother.
"You make that speech shorter every year."
Lothær smirked.
"They're here for the food."
"Yes, but I fear if you talked much longer..."
Bulrah grinned.
"...they'd all start eating without you." Bulrah said, gesturing behind Lothær.
Bulrah was right. Before Lothær had taken three steps from the bonfire, one of the hunters had already carved himself the largest cut of roasted vyrl.
"I saw that." Lothær called out.
The hunter froze. Slowly, he turned.
"I was... making sure it wasn't poisoned."
Lothær folded his arms.
"By tasting all of it?"
"A chieftain can never be too careful, someone must take the first bite, and you never know how deep into the meat a poison can go."
Laughter erupted around the table. Lothær walked over, tore an even larger piece from the spit, and dropped it onto the hunter's plate.
"There."
The hunter blinked.
"...Really?"
"You've earned it, my friend."
The old hunter beside him leaned over.
"You should've asked for two."
More laughter as the musicians struck up another song, and within moments the surrounding area was alive again. Children danced around the bonfire. Old warriors argued over battle stories that had grown more impressive with every passing winter. Someone challenged the village smith to an arm-wrestling contest. He lost spectacularly. Bulrah collected three mugs of mead before anyone realized he'd taken them.
"One for me."
He handed one to Lothær.
"One for you."
He drank from the third himself.
"And one for later."
Lothær laughed.
"You'll never change."
"I certainly hope not, I think I am quite the catch."
The feast settled into its familiar rhythm as the first mugs had been emptied. The musicians had abandoned any hope of staying together, each playing slightly faster than the last while the dancers insisted they were still perfectly in step. Lothær leaned back in his chair, watching the celebration with a quiet smile. Bulrah noticed.
"There it is."
"What?"
"That look."
"What look?"
"The one that means you're about to wander off instead of enjoying yourself."
Lothær chuckled.
"A chieftain's work doesn't end because the food is warm."
Bulrah groaned dramatically.
"It should."
"It doesn't."
Lothær stood, setting his mug aside.
"Don't worry brother, I'll be back before you drink the village dry."
Bulrah raised his horn.
"You better be quick then, I have a mighty thirst."
Lothær wandered through the village without any destination in mind. He simply walked. He paused beside every fire. Spoke with every family, and asked every hunter how their injuries were healing. To him, it was routine. To everyone else… It was simply what their chieftain did. Near the cookfires, one of the oldest women in the clan struggled to lift an iron pot onto its hook. Before she could ask, Lothær stepped beside her.
"I've got it."
She frowned.
"I wasn't asking."
"I know."
Together they lifted it into place. She dusted her hands on her apron.
"I could've managed."
"I know."
She poked him in the ribs with a wooden spoon.
"You've been saying that since you were sixteen winters old."
"And you've been pretending you don't need help since before I was born."
The old woman laughed despite herself.
"You always were too observant."
"I've had good teachers."
She reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair away from his face.
"You've got your mother's eyes."
For a moment… Lothær's smile softened.
"I miss her tonight."
"So do I."
She squeezed his forearm.
"She'd be proud of the man you've become, dear boy."
Lothær lowered his head.
"I hope so."
Lothær left before the conversation could linger. Across the square, a group of children had declared war on one another with carved wooden axes. One little boy spotted him immediately.
"Chieftain!"
Lothær barely had time to react before three children crashed into his legs.
"We need a judge!"
"Oh?"
"He cheated."
"I didn't!"
"You did!"
Lothær looked between them with exaggerated seriousness.
"This is a grave matter."
The children nodded solemnly. He knelt to inspect the battlefield, a scattering of sticks and boot prints in the snow.
"I see."
He pointed toward the smallest girl.
"You won."
The boys protested immediately.
"Why?"
"Because while the two of you were arguing..."
He smiled.
"...she stole your supplies."
The girl proudly held up three pinecones she'd hidden behind her back. The boys stared. Then burst into laughter.
"So..."
Lothær stood.
"The lesson?"
The little girl grinned.
"Always be vigilant."
"Exactly."
He continued on. Near the edge of the village, several young hunters sat sharpening their spears. One of them quickly stood.
"Chieftain."
Lothær waved him back down.
"Sit."
The young man hesitated.
"...But chieftain."
"If you stand every time I walk by, you'll spend the whole feast on your feet."
The hunters laughed. One of them rubbed the fresh bruise spreading across his shoulder.
"You hit harder this year." one of the men groaned towards Lothær
"I hit exactly as hard as last year."
"No." Another hunter chuckled.
"You've just gotten softer."
Lothær folded his arms.
"So that's the story you're telling?"
"It's the only one that protects my pride."
Lothær laughed.
"I'll allow it if it saves your pride enough to celebrate, my friend."
As he turned to leave, one of the youngest hunters spoke up.
"Chieftain?"
Lothær stopped.
"When did you know?"
"Know what?"
"...That you were ready."
The question lingered in the cold air. Lothær looked back toward the feast.
The fires.
The music.
The children.
Bulrah laughing somewhere behind him. Lothær smiled at the sounds as they reached him.
"I wasn't."
The young hunters exchanged confused looks.
"But you became Chieftain."
"I took responsibility. For the village, and for you all."
He rested a hand on the young man's shoulder.
"Those aren't the same thing."
Bulrah walked over carrying two fresh mugs.
"I found you."
"You usually do."
He handed one over. The brothers walked in silence for a while, listening to the music until they reached a quiet space on the edge of the solstice festivities. Bulrah finally spoke.
"Do you ever think about leaving?"
Lothær laughed.
"Leaving?"
"The mountains." Bulrah replied
"The clan."
"This."
He gestured toward the village.
"You've hunted farther than anyone alive."
Bulrah shrugged.
"I wonder what's beyond."
Lothær looked toward the horizon.
"I wonder too."
"...Then why stay?"
He looked back toward the fires as the children continued to chase one another through the snow and the hunters sang. An old couple danced despite both needing walking sticks. Lothær smiled.
"Because this is where I'm needed."
Bulrah stared into his mug.
"I thought you'd say something like that."
"What were you hoping for?"
"I don't know."
He shrugged.
"That you dreamed of conquering kingdoms rather than the encampments we have left ourselves to over the last generations."
Lothær barked a laugh.
"And inherit someone else's long list of problems and mouths to feed? I think if we tried hard enough we'd find plenty of our own here brother."
Bulrah smiled.
"I suppose you are right."
The brothers sat in companionable silence. The fire cracked between them. Snow drifted lazily from the black sky, hissing softly as it landed on the edges of the great bonfire. Across the village, the children began to slow their battles as exhaustion finally caught up with them. One little boy marched proudly through the square wearing a wooden bucket on his head.
"I am Chieftain!"
His sister promptly struck him with a stick.
"No, you're dead."
The boy collapsed dramatically. Several nearby warriors applauded the performance. Lothær shook his head.
"They've been watching us too closely."
Bulrah smirked.
"They're learning."
"I hope they learn better footwork than you."
Bulrah snorted into his drink.
"There he is."
"What?"
"The man who can't let a victory rest."
"I earned that victory."
"Barely."
Lothær looked sideways at him.
"Barely?"
"You were breathing harder than usual." Bulrah quipped.
"I crawled out of my furs this morning breathing harder than usual."
Bulrah laughed so hard he nearly spilled his mead.
"You really are getting old."
Lothær bumped his shoulder.
"I'll remember you said that."
"I hope you do."
For a while neither spoke. The music carried across the village. Someone had begun an old hunting ballad. Others joined in one voice at a time until the entire square seemed to sing together. Bulrah watched the flames.
"Do you remember Father's last feast?"
Lothær's smile faded into something quieter.
"I remember."
"I thought he looked invincible."
"So did I."
Bulrah took another drink.
"I never understood why he stepped down."
"He didn't."
Bulrah frowned.
"He knew."
"Knew what?"
Lothær watched sparks disappear into the night sky.
"When it was time to let someone else carry the burden."
Bulrah was quiet.
"You think about that often?"
"More than I admit."
Another silence settled between them. This one wasn't uncomfortable, Just honest. Finally Bulrah looked at his brother.
"If something ever happened to you..."
Lothær immediately cut him off.
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know you."
Bulrah frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means..."
Lothær smiled.
"...I'd be able to leave this clan in safe hands."
Bulrah didn't answer. Instead, he looked back toward the fires. The compliment clearly meant more than he wanted to admit. After a long moment, he quietly said;
"I'd make a terrible chieftain."
Lothær chuckled.
"So would I."
Bulrah looked over.
"You've led us for fourteen winters."
"And yet, I still don't know what I'm doing."
Bulrah stared. Then burst into laughter.
"You liar."
Lothær grinned.
"I'm serious."
He watched the people gathered around the fire.
"The day you think you've figured out how to lead..."
"...is the day you've stopped listening, brother."
"Chieftain!" a voice called out from the main group.
Lothær looked up.
The elder raised an empty mug.
"Are you planning to spend the whole feast hiding from your people?"
Bulrah smirked.
"You've been found again."
Lothær sighed theatrically, stood, and took his mug.
"Come on, then. Before they decide to start the next Winter Games without me."
Bulrah rose with a groan, stretching his aching shoulders.
"I don't think I'll survive another one."
Lothær glanced at him.
"You'll recover."
"I always do."
The brothers made their way back toward the heart of the celebration. The surrounding area had grown louder while they'd been away. Somewhere, a pair of hunters were arguing over whether mountain bears preferred smoked fish or fresh meat. Neither had ever asked a bear. The debate had become surprisingly heated. Nearby, the village smith sat surrounded by children, using scraps of leather to teach them how to braid axe grips. A pair of old women laughed so hard at one another's stories that neither could remember what had been funny in the first place. Lothær slowed his pace, he watched it all. The music, the laughter, the fires, this, this was why he continued The Hunt. Not for glory, or for trophies.
For this.
Bulrah noticed the look on his brother's face.
"You really do love this place."
Lothær smiled.
"I do."
Before Bulrah could answer, a heavy hand landed on Lothær's shoulder.
"There you are!"
A booming voice rose over the music. One of the elder hunters, his beard nearly as white as the snow beneath his boots, shoved another drinking horn into Lothær's hand.
"We've been waiting."
"For what?"
The old hunter looked offended.
"You won."
He gestured toward the gathered clan.
"Say something, tell us what awaits us this next cycle."
Lothær sighed dramatically.
"I knew winning came with consequences."
The crowd laughed. Someone shouted,
"Ugh.! Less talking!"
Another answered,
"That's exactly what we want him to do!"
Lothær climbed onto a broad flat stone beside the bonfire as the chatter slowly faded. He looked over the faces gathered around him. Every family, every hunter, and every child.
For a moment...
He forgot what he'd planned to say.
Instead, he smiled.
"We've had a good cycle."
A murmur of agreement rolled through the crowd.
"The mountains have been generous."
"The game has been plentiful."
"Our children grow stronger."
"Our elders wiser."
He lifted his drinking horn.
"And somehow..."
He glanced toward Bulrah.
"...my brother still believes he'll beat me next winter."
The crowd exploded with laughter. Bulrah raised his own horn.
"I nearly did!"
"You nearly always do."
More laughter, Lothær let it settle before continuing.
"But winter never lasts forever."
The laughter faded.
"When the thaw comes..."
"...we begin The Hunt again."
Now the hunters leaned forward.
"I've spent the past season listening to traders."
"A dangerous hobby," someone called.
"It is."
Lothær smiled.
"But every now and then..."
"...a lie gets repeated often enough that it becomes worth investigating."
The crowd chuckled.
"I've heard of a place."
He let the words hang for a moment.
"A city surrounded by walls brighter than fresh snow."
"Built not built from stone..."
"...but silver."
Several people laughed, one hunter called out,
"And next you'll tell us the rivers run with mead!"
Lothær grinned.
"I was disappointed to learn they don't."
The laughter returned.
"But the city is real."
Its name...
"...is Ralstrog."
For a moment, the village was silent. Then every hunter began talking at once.
"Silver?"
"Impossible!"
"I heard it was gold!"
"You heard wrong."
"My cousin traded with a merchant who claimed the walls shine so brightly you can see them from miles away."
"A merchant also told you giant fish fly."
"They do fly!"
"No, they jump."
"That's flying!.. Somewhat…"
The argument dissolved into laughter. Lothær climbed down from the stone, shaking his head.
"I leave for one drink and they've already begun rewriting the world."
Bulrah handed him another horn of mead.
"You caused this."
One of the younger hunters hurried over.
"Chieftain!"
Lothær turned.
"If the stories are true..."
"...can I come?"
Lothær smiled.
"How many winters have you hunted?"
The young man frowned.
"...Two."
"And how many times have I told you to stop asking before I finish explaining?"
The young hunter lowered his eyes.
"...Both times."
"And?"
"I should wait to ask."
"You should."
The young man sighed dramatically.
"...You're still going to take me though, aren't you?"
Lothær laughed.
"If you survive the winter."
The hunter grinned.
"I will." the young man replied.
Bulrah pointed a finger toward his brother.
"Alright brother, You've escaped enough conversations for one night."
"I have not."
"You disappeared for nearly an hour."
"I was inspecting the feast."
"You were hiding."
Lothær smiled.
"A chieftain is entitled to a little peace."
Bulrah barked a laugh.
"Not tonight."
From somewhere deeper in the crowd came a loud cheer. A circle of warriors had gathered around two enormous hunters locked in an arm wrestling contest. One of them was already red in the face, while the other hadn't stopped grinning. Bulrah looked over his shoulder.
"They've started without me."
"You'll survive."
"They'll cheat, They always cheat."
Bulrah hurriedly took another drink before tossing the empty horn to Lothær.
"If I'm not back before sunrise..."
Lothær raised an eyebrow.
"I've probably won."
Lothær laughed.
"You've probably passed out."
Bulrah grinned.
"That too."
Lothær clasped Bulrah's forearm, a simple gesture, one shared between brothers a thousand times before.
"Don't stay out here too long."
"I won't."
Lothær released him and Bulrah disappeared into the sea of firelight and laughter. Within moments he was swallowed by the crowd. Lothær watched him for a second longer before turning away.
The feast carried on behind him, drums echoed across the mountain. Someone began another song. Lothær smiled to himself as he thought they sounded terrible the more they drank. He wouldn't have changed a thing, he wandered toward the edge of the summit, boots crunching softly through the fresh snow. From there the entire valley stretched beneath him, with jagged peaks that disappeared into clouds, The stars seemed close enough to touch.
Cold air filled his lungs. For the first time all day… He was alone. Or so he thought.
"You've done well."
The voice was soft. Almost lost beneath the wind. Lothær turned. A woman stood several paces away. She hadn't been there a moment ago.
Or perhaps...
He simply hadn't noticed. She wore no furs despite the bitter cold. Snow settled across her dark cloak without melting. She wasn't looking at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the village below.
"They're happy."
Lothær followed her gaze.
"They are."
"They trust you."
"They do."
"They would follow you anywhere."
Lothær studied her for a moment.
"I don't believe we've met."
"No."
She smiled faintly.
"We haven't."
There was something strange about her voice, not its sound, but its certainty. As though every word had already been spoken long before this night. Lothær folded his arms.
"You know my people?"
"I know enough."
"And who might you be?"
Instead of answering… She looked toward the bonfire, watching the children as their tired bodies carried them, laughing between the tables. Bulrah's booming voice carried across the village as another cheer erupted. The woman watched them in silence. Then she quietly said,
"It's beautiful."
Lothær smiled.
"It is."
She turned to him then. Her expression distant.
"Tell me, Chieftain..."
"...what would you do to keep it?"
The question caught him off guard.
"What do you mean?"
"If every life gathered around those fires depended upon a single choice..."
"...what would you sacrifice?"
Lothær frowned.
"I don't entertain impossible questions."
"They rarely remain impossible."
The wind stirred between them, snow drifted through the silence. Finally Lothær said,
"I would give anything."
The woman studied him for a long moment.
"I know."
Then… For the first time… She smiled, not warmly, but with a hint of an deep sadness.
"As I feared."
She turned to leave.
"Wait."
She paused. Without looking back, she said,
"Enjoy the rest of your evening, Great Chieftain Lothær."
He frowned.
"You still haven't told me your name."
She stood motionless, for only a moment. Then...
"You'll learn it soon enough."
She stepped into the falling snow. A gust of wind swept across the summit as Lothær shielded his eyes. When he looked again… She was gone, not walking away, Simply… Gone.
He searched the ridge to find nothing but fresh snow. The music behind him swelled once more. Someone shouted his name from the feast. Bulrah, no doubt, demanding a rematch in some contest he'd just invented. Lothær looked one last time into the darkness where the woman had stood, then he shook his head.
"Too much mead," he muttered with a smile.
Turning his back on the empty ridge, he walked toward the warmth of the bonfire.