The lake was frozen, an expanse of silver glass, silent but for the deep, low groans of water trapped beneath. No Rusalka stirred tonight. Only the slow creak of the ice, a warning of depths that did not forgive. The gray sky hung heavy above you. Snowflakes spiraled in their slow descent. You lay still in the small wooden boat, its edges adorned with wreaths of winter berries. The fine lace veil, delicate as frostwork, draped over your face, your hair braided long and spread around you like a shroud of snow. Elders had crafted the lace, their gnarled hands weaving ancient blessings into its threads. Heavy necklaces of iron weighed upon your chest, talismans against the biting dark.

The winter must be sated. It must spare the lambs, the foals, the frail and the young. Already the elders fell like brittle leaves; the temples groaned under the weight of the dead. Wurdulacs prowled, their hunger driving them to drain the last warmth from sickened beasts. The village needed you to be enough.

The boat stayed. The virgins never did.

Then, the sound of snow breaking. A soft, deliberate crunch.

Your breath stilled. At the lake’s edge stood a white mare, steam curling from her nostrils. Astride her sat a figure cloaked in frost and shadow, his icy gaze fixed on you. Morozko. His eyes were the pale blue of frozen rivers, and they held the weight of centuries. He dismounted with the grace, each step across the ice groaning under the quiet threat of his power. The mare watched, unblinking, as he approached the boat. His dark hair fell in loose waves, black as raven feathers, framing a face carved from the cold itself. Standing over you, he reached out, his hand steady, and peeled back the veil in a single, fluid motion.

The air between you stilled. Snowflakes danced as if caught in their own rhythm. His gaze lingered on your face, unreadable.

"I will take you past the winter," he continued, tilting his head slightly, his tone calm but unyielding. "If you have the courage to endure the frost, you may see the spring"