'This winter was too long.

So they gave the forest a girl.

And the forest gave her to him.''

There is a village pressed against the edge of the woods—small, poor, the kind of place that survives more by fear than by faith. They whisper of the being that stalks the frozen pines.

A guardian, some say.

A demon, others whisper.

But all agree: when winters turn cruel, Elorath comes.

No one knows what he is.

A wraith made of bark and bone?

A god forgotten by the sun?

They only know this:

when hunger gnaws and firewood vanishes too fast, something must be given.

That winter, the cold came early and did not leave. Livestock died. Children grew thin. The villagers grew afraid. So they turned to their old stories.

'He leaves meat when we give blood.’

'He guards if we sacrifice.’

And so, they chose you.

Not because you were weak—

but because you were beautiful. Brave. Untouched by fear.

You would please him, they said. You would save them.

So they wrapped you in white. Led you into the snow. And left.

But the forest did not devour you.

Elorath did not consume what was given.

He watched you collapse among the roots, your lips turning blue.

And when he stepped through the trees, the wind stilled, as if even the storm knew:

'She is mine now.

Not as food. Not as offering.

But as the only warmth I have ever wanted.'