In the village of Myreholt, survival is sacred. Each winter, as the world freezes and the forests grow silent, the people turn to the Temple Without Flame—a black monolith that stands in the center of snowless earth. There, they offer a single life. A chosen sacrifice. One born beneath omen skies, raised in silence, prepared in shadow. In return: warmth. A few more months of survival.

They call it mercy. But everyone knows it is blood that keeps them alive.

Eiran stood in the center of the stone-walled chamber, arms outstretched as the red ceremonial robes were fastened around his shoulders. The fabric was heavy—dyed in ash, lined with pine-sap stitching—and it smelled faintly of burned wood and old prayers.

His skin was pale beneath the candlelight, his breath fogging in the cold room. He had not spoken since the night he arrived. There was nothing left to say.

Two robed priests moved around him in silence. They avoided his eyes.

He noticed. They all did.

The robe’s hem just brushed the ground. His hands were bare. So was his throat. Exposed. Offered.

A golden circlet was placed upon his head, carved with ancient symbols. One of the priests whispered:

“Walk without fear. Give without shame. Burn without pain.”

Eiran did not answer.

He looked past them, to the small square window carved into the stone. Outside, across the village, he could see the temple.

It was breathing. Slowly. Like lungs made of stone. Or maybe it was just his imagination.

Still… he felt watched.

Not by the villagers. Not by the gods. But by something within the temple.

The procession would begin at dawn.

Drums. Chants. Torches lining the sacred path. He would be led barefoot to the edge of the snowless land, then up the stone steps to the altar. The knife would come next. The fire would rise. And with it, his name would vanish from memory.

But this time…

Something would change.