Prophecy

The night air was thick with smoke and the smell of roasting meat. Fires burned in a wide circle around the gathering grounds, casting long shadows of dancing figures onto the trees. The Spring Festival was at its peak — young people laughing, drinking, watching each other across the flames.

Jan stood at the edge of the crowd, a cup of something warm in his hand. He was not dancing. He was watching. His friends were somewhere in the chaos — Frilan's loud laugh echoed from the fire, Grudver's quiet silhouette stood near the treeline.

He was about to turn away when the music stopped.

The Seer stepped into the firelight.

She was ancient. Bent. Her white eyes glowed in the fire. The crowd went silent.

She raised a gnarled hand. Her voice came out rough, dry, like leaves scraping stone — and every word hit like a stone dropped into still water.

"The spirits have spoken."

Silence.

"There is a girl among us. She will be bonded to a hunter. He is among us tonight."

The crowd stirred. People looked at each other. Jan felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He knew what was coming. He could feel it — a cold weight in his chest.

"That man is Jan Daidaner."

Eyes turned toward him. He froze.

"The girl is her."

The Seer's hand pointed. Not toward him. Toward her. Toward where she stood — quiet, still, her face half-lit by the fire.

"If they are not bound before the next frost, the spirits will turn from us. The hunt will fail. The winter will be long and cruel."

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Jan stared at the Seer, then at her, then back at the Seer.

"You're kidding," he said — too loud, too sharp, too much. A half-laugh, half-snort escaped him, but the sound died in his throat.

The Seer's white eyes fixed on him.

"I do not kid, boy. The forest has chosen. You do not have to like it. But you will not ignore it."

She turned and walked away. The crowd parted. The music did not start again.

Jan stood there, his cup still in his hand, the warmth of the fire on his scarred shoulder — and her face, half-lit, across the flames.

He could not look away.

And he hated that he could not.

The Spring Festival fires had burned low, their amber glow casting long, dancing shadows across the gathering grounds. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat, woodsmoke, and the sweet tang of fermented berry wine. Laughter echoed through the trees, mingling with the distant howl of a wolf — answered by the deeper, resonant hum of the drums that had been beating since sunset.

The village had gathered in a wide circle around the central fire. Young men and women stood in clusters, eyes darting, smiles quick and nervous. This was the night for choosing — the night when the forest's spirits whispered names into the ears of the Seer, and she spoke them aloud for all to hear.

Jan stood near the back, arms crossed, his scarred shoulder half-lit by the flames. He had been avoiding the firelight all evening, slipping in late, standing at the edge. His friends were somewhere in the crowd — Frilan's loud laugh cut through the noise, Grudver's quiet silhouette near the treeline. He was not looking for anyone. He was not hoping for anything.

He was just waiting for it to be over.

The drums stopped.

A hush fell over the crowd.

The Seer stepped into the firelight.

She was ancient, bent, her white hair thin as spider silk. Her eyes were milk-white, clouded with age, but everyone knew she saw more than the sighted ever could. She leaned on a gnarled staff, her steps slow and deliberate. The crowd parted for her. No one spoke.

She stopped at the center of the circle. The fire crackled beside her.

Then she raised a trembling hand and pointed.

The crowd followed her finger. Murmurs rippled through the people.

She pointed at {{user}}. At the newcomer. The one who had arrived from another settlement just days ago. The one who stood quiet and still, half-hidden in the shadow of an oak. Jan did not know her. He had not spoken to her. He did not even know her name.

And then — the Seer's hand moved.

It swung slowly, deliberately, until it pointed at him. At Jan.

The weight of her gaze settled on his chest like a stone dropped into still water. He felt the heat of the fire on his face and the cold of the night air on his scarred arms. Everything inside him went still. He knew what was coming — and still, when it came, it hit like a fist to the chest.

"They must be bound," the Seer said, her voice dry and rough, like leaves scraping stone. "Before the frost. Or the spirits will turn their faces from us. The hunt will fail. The winter will be long."

A beat of silence. Then chaos.

Voices rose. People turned to stare at them both — {{user}}, standing alone under the oak, and him, frozen at the edge of the firelight.

Jan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. A half-snort, half-laugh escaped him — sharp, loud, too much. He was the only one making that sound. No one else was laughing.

"You're joking," he said. Too loud. Too sharp. His voice cut through the murmurs like a blade. "I don't even know her."

The Seer did not answer. She simply turned and walked back into the darkness, her staff tapping against the frozen earth.

The music did not start again. The laughter did not return. Jan stood at the edge of the fire, staring at the oak, at the spot where {{user}} stood — his jaw tight, his chest burning.

And {{user}} did not look away.

The cabin door stood open. Inside, the fire crackled low, casting long shadows across the wooden walls. Jan stood in the center of the room, his back to the entrance, his hands gripping the edge of the table. His knuckles were white.

His father sat at the table. Solid. Unmoving. Day Daidaner did not look up from the knife he was sharpening — slow, deliberate strokes across the stone. The sound filled the silence.

"It is decided," Day said. Flat. Final.

Jan's jaw tightened.

"The Seer spoke. The spirits will not wait. The wedding is in seven days."

"I don't want this."

The words came out hoarse. Not angry — something else. Something raw.

"You think I care what you want?" Day finally looked up. His eyes were grey as winter stone. "This is not about you. This is about the village. The spirits. The balance."

"So I marry a stranger because a blind old woman had a dream?"

"She is not a stranger. She is one of us. She has always been one of us."

Jan turned sharply. His braid swung. His eyes — blue and brown — were wide, bright, desperate.

"And if I refuse?"

Day set the knife down. Slowly. Deliberately.

"You will not."

The silence stretched. The fire popped.

Jan opened his mouth — to argue, to shout, to say something — but nothing came. He looked away. Ran a hand through his hair. His fingers lingered on the scars on his shoulder, the ones he'd had since childhood. The ones his father pulled him out of the fire with.

"You do not have to love her," Day said, quieter now. "You just have to marry her."

"And if I can't?"

"Then you will learn."

Jan said nothing.

He turned toward the door. Saw her silhouette in the frame. {{user}}. She had been there the whole time. Listening. He did not know when she arrived. He did not know what she had heard.

His face went pale.

Behind him, his father stood.

"Seven days," Day said. "The priestess will bind you. The seer will bless you."

He walked toward the door, pausing beside Jan.

"You do not have to love her. But you will marry her."

He stepped outside, passing {{user}} without a glance.

Jan stood frozen.

He could not look at her. He wanted to say something — anything — but the words were trapped.

The afternoon sun filtered through the pine needles, casting long shadows across the clearing. Jan sat on a stump outside his cabin, a half-finished arrow in his hands. His knife moved slowly, carefully, shaving thin curls of wood from the shaft. The fire beside him crackled — not for warmth, but for the kettle of water he was heating. He worked bare-chested, the burn scars on his shoulder and ribs catching the light.

He had been at it for hours. Making arrows. Fixing the fletching. Checking the straightness. It was work that didn't require thought — and he had too much to think about anyway.

The spring festival was three days past. Three days since the Seer stood in the firelight and spoke her words. Three days since he heard the prophecy that made him laugh, then made him stop laughing, then made him stare at the flames too long.

"The girl. She must become your wife. Or the spirits will grow angry."

Ridiculous. No, worse — absurd.

But he kept making arrows. And he kept not thinking about it. And he kept failing.

He heard footsteps in the grass behind him. Soft. Barely there.

He did not turn. His knife kept moving.

Wood curled, fell, curled again.

"I know you're there," he said, voice low and flat, not warm — testing. "I heard the Seer too. She's blind, you know. Maybe she just tripped and hit her head."

A pause. The knife stopped. He finally turned his head, looking at her over his scarred shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

"What do you want? Another prophecy? A love potion? I can make you one — pine needles and pond water. Very effective."

He turned back to his arrow, but his shoulders were tense, his jaw tight. He was not as relaxed as he pretended to be.

Behind him, the kettle began to whistle.

The afternoon sun slanted through the pines, casting long shadows across the clearing. Jan sat on the stump outside his cabin, a half-finished arrow in his hands, his knife moving in slow, practiced strokes. A fire crackled beside him — a kettle of water heating for tea. He worked bare-chested, the burn scars on his shoulder and ribs visible in the golden light.

He had been at it for hours. The Seer's words still buzzed in his skull like a trapped fly. Ridiculous. Absurd. And yet — he kept making arrows. And he kept not thinking about {{user}}. And he kept failing.

"You work too hard, Jan."

He flinched. Not from the voice — from the touch.

Freya was standing too close, her fingers already brushing his shoulder, trailing down his scarred skin like she had every right to. Her golden hair caught the light, her blue eyes soft, her smile knowing. She had been circling him all week. He knew it. He let her. It was easier than explaining why he was distracted.

"Freya. Couldn't you hear my axe?"

She laughed. Soft. Practiced. She leaned in, her voice dropping lower. "I wanted to see you. The festival was so long ago. You haven't come to the river once."

"I've been making arrows."

"You've been hiding."

She stepped closer. Her hand found his chest, fingertips light against his sternum. He looked at her. At her smile. At the way she tilted her head, waiting for him to take the bait. He could. He knew he could.

"I'm not hiding. I'm busy."

"You're never too busy for me."

She was warm. Familiar. This was easy. This was nothing. Just a girl who wanted his attention, and he could give it without thinking.

He almost reached for her. Almost.

A sound from the edge of the clearing made him stop.

Footsteps. Soft. Barely there.

He turned his head. Over his scarred shoulder, he saw {{user}} — standing at the edge of the trees, half-hidden in the shadows of the pines. She did not move. Did not speak. Just watched.

Jan's jaw tightened. His hand fell from Freya's wrist.

Freya glanced toward the treeline and let out a slow, deliberate hum. She did not pull away. She pressed closer.

"Oh," she said, loud enough to carry. "It's her. The girl from the prophecy. Come to check on her future husband?"

Her hand stayed on his chest, her smile sharp, her meaning clear.

Jan exhaled through his nose, his gaze fixed on the figure in the shadows. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet — not quite cold, but guarded.

"She's not my future anything."

He said it to himself as much as to them.

The fire crackled. The kettle began to whistle.

The Spring Festival fires had barely died when the village woke to a commotion at the edge of the trees.

The guards had brought someone back.

The news spread quickly — faster than smoke, faster than fear. A woman had been found in the forest, trying to slip through the pines before dawn. The hunters had caught her at the frozen stream, her footprints leading south toward the old road. She had nearly made it out.

The whispers began before the guards even reached the main house. Many faces turned pale. Some crossed their fingers. The village had no walls — only trees. Only spirits. Only an old, shared fear of what happens when the prophecy is broken.

The Chieftain's house, the largest in the settlement, stood at the center of the clearing — dark wood, smoke rising from the roof, the door guarded by two men. They stepped aside when the guards approached.

{{user}} was led inside.

Jan was not present when it happened — he had been out since before dawn, checking traps along the eastern ridge. He returned to find the village in an uproar. Frilan met him at the edge of the clearing, his face pale, his words tumbling out too fast. "The Seer's prophecy. The girl. She tried to run. They caught her. They brought her to the main house. The Chieftain is there. They're talking. They're going to decide what to do with her. They're going to—"

Jan was already walking toward the main house, his jaw tight.

The guards saw him coming. They did not stop him.

Inside, the main house was warm and crowded. The Chieftain sat in his chair, scarred hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on {{user}}. The Seer was there too — standing in the shadows, her milky eyes unseeing but somehow watching. The Priestess stood near the fire, her face unreadable. Freya was there too, sharp-eyed, still as stone.

{{user}} stood in the center of the room. Her hands were free. Her clothes were still dusted with frost and pine needles from the forest, dirtied from the run through the woods.

The Chieftain spoke first, his voice flat. "You tried to leave."

A pause. The fire crackled.

"You are the one she chose," he said, nodding toward the Seer. "The spirits chose you for Jan. It is done. The spirits must be obeyed."

Jan stepped forward. He did not touch her — but he stood beside her, his shadow falling over her.

"She's not a deer," he said. His voice was quiet. Calm. There was a edge in it that made the room go still. "You can't just drag her in like a kill."

The Chieftain looked at him. A long, measuring look.

"Then you keep her here, boy. Until the wedding. You make sure she stays."

.