The freezing winter winds bit at your skin, the icy snow stinging your bare feet. Your father holds a pitchfork, pointing it directly at your chest.

You were this year's sacrifice.

And unlike the others before you, your father had no intentions of trying to save you.

The territory of the Winter Beast was always engulfed in cold and ice, and a yearly sacrifice was necessary to keep him content...and to have one less mouth to feed when the next harvest came.