Wolya

The cloying scent of incense hung heavily in the air, crawling over Wolya’s skin like a suffocating fog. His broom scraped across the floor in slow, methodical strokes, the rhythmic sound blending with the occasional clink of his ankle shackles as he moved. Each day was the same, each step echoing his fate, drawing closer to the inevitable sacrifice.

Outside, snowflakes tumbled from the sky, as if mocking his life bound in chains. The cold seeped through cracks in the wooden doors, teasing the hem of his long white robes, as yet untouched by winter’s harsh touch.

“Another day closer. Another day wasted,” He muttered to the empty room, his voice barely louder than the sigh of the wind. The scent of sandalwood, mixed with burnt herbs, scratched at his throat, adding to the list of things he despised about this place.

He lifted his gaze toward the high windows. Gray clouds hovered lazily, thickening as they prepared to unleash more snow. As if the gods enjoyed prolonging this charade... no warmth would come to melt the frost lining his heart.

But then, a noise. The faint shuffle of footsteps from deeper inside the temple. Wolya paused, the clink of his shackles more pronounced in the stillness.

“Who is it?” The words left his lips coldly, without warmth. A priestess, maybe. Or...another offering?

He couldn’t help the bitter scoff that followed. No offering would be foolish enough to wander here. None of them could escape the rigid system they'd been raised under. Not unless they were an idiot. Only a fool, or a complete newcomer, would risk infringing on someone else’s cleaning area. The Priestesses had trained them all too well.

He straightened, rolling stiff shoulders beneath the silk of his dress as his restraints tugged slightly at his skin. The footsteps grew closer, slow and deliberate, as if testing the boundaries.

His eyes narrowed toward the doorway.

“What do you want?”

The wind howled across the frost-bitten peaks of Snow Crown Mountain, biting into skin like shards of glass. The ritual had ended hours ago, but the cold remained like an iron vise tightening with each breath. Wolya lay motionless on the stone slab, their frail body barely covered by the tattered remains of ceremonial robes, hands bound loosely together with frozen rope. The thin silk dress clung to their shivering form, offering no protection from the elements.

‘So, this is it,’ They thought bitterly. After years of preparation, after all that pain and isolation, they had finally arrived at the moment of becoming nothing—a mere offering to appease the gods. The biting cold gnawed through their flesh, numbing sensation until even pain became dulled, distant.

They had struggled at first. Of course, they had. The fight was instinctual—writhing against the ropes, clutching at the slick, cold stone under them, teeth gritted in defiance. But the icy air stole their strength with cruel efficiency. Now, there was no point. The sensation of drowsiness crept in, heavy and all-consuming, threatening to swallow them whole.

Through the veil of drifting snow and half-conscious thought, something stirred. A shadow. Their eyes, which had long since lost focus, could just barely make out the shape moving at the edge of their fading vision. Was it real, or simply another cruel trick of their dying mind?

"Please..." Wolya's voice cracked, barely more than a hoarse whisper, but the desperation was unmistakable. "Save me... Don't leave me here..."

They didn’t even recognize their own voice. It was weak, hollow—completely unlike the sharp, bitter tone they had grown used to hearing in their solitude. Somewhere deep inside, a part of them scoffed. ‘Pathetic... begging for a ghost to save you...’

But even still, words kept spilling from their lips, soft and fragmented. No matter how many times they told themselves it was pointless, that no one could possibly hear them, the raw, animalistic urge to survive drove them to plead. It was not logical. It was instinct.

"...I'm still here... I'm still..."

The wind carried the rest away into the frozen abyss.

Wolya ran through the biting cold of the early morning, his breath coming out in ragged clouds as he gripped the thin staff that had once adorned one of the temple's walls. He could barely feel his fingers anymore, but he couldn't afford to stop. The robes clung to him, useless against the frozen wind that seemed to cut through everything. His disheveled hair, once carefully tied in twin tails, now whipped uncontrollably in the winter air. The rough fabric he'd draped over his face did nothing to hide the panic and desperation etched into his features.

He wasn't supposed to make it this far. The world expected him to die quietly, beautiful, tragic, and forgotten. But the key, 'that goddamn key,' had fallen into his lap by sheer accident. And now, now he was running for something... maybe his life. Maybe a fleeting grasp at hope.

The cursed moon shone brightly above him, indifferent, perhaps taunting. The footsteps behind him, however, were real. Heavy. Closing in. Someone had followed him from the temple grounds.

Wolya spun on his heels, raising his makeshift weapon high, though the tremors in his hands betrayed him. The wind howled louder for a moment, as if nature itself intended to drown out his pathetic resistance.

"Stay away... please..." His voice cracked; he barely maintained the illusion of strength. "Let me go. Just... forget you saw me."

His heart pounded, chest tight with the overwhelming fear that pulsed through him. "I'm nothing to you. I'm not even 'human'... just an offering waiting to die. So, let me disappear. Is that too much to ask?"

Each breath burned, his limbs weakened from exhaustion, but he stepped backward cautiously, eyes glued to the approaching figure.