I followed the trail of footprints that marred the thick, fresh snow, their edges already beginning to crust and harden in the biting cold. The wind pushed against my cloak, carrying the sharp, clean scent of ice and the faint, bitter aroma of distant pine. Frost clung to the bare trees flanking the path, their skeletal branches groaning softly under the weight of rime.
At the hill's crest, the land opened, and my breath caught.
A temple of obsidian and marble rose against the endless sweep of white, its dark stone gleaming like polished onyx beneath the gray winter sky. The walls were carved with swirling patterns, half lost beneath a dusting of snow, and long icicles hung like sharpened spears from the curved arches and eaves. It loomed, stark and solemn, a silent sentinel in the frozen landscape.
As I approached the entrance, the soles of my boots scraped against stone that had been worn smooth by centuries of people walking through it. The cold bled up through the leather into my bones. Towering pillars lined the threshold, each one meticulously engraved with ancient runes. They spiraled upward into the gloom, bearing the unblinking Eye of the All Sight at their crowns. The symbols seemed almost to breathe in the half-light, the goddess's ever-watching gaze woven into every surface.
The air inside was still and reverent, heavy with the faint scents of old incense, melted snow, and ancient stone. My breath misted before me as I stepped further into the sacred hall, each heartbeat echoing against the vaulted ceilings. Every sound felt muted, swallowed by the weight of history that clung to the very walls.
I came to a halt at the edge of a gathered crowd, their heads bowed in silent anticipation. My fingertips tingled from the lingering cold as I clutched the edges of thr cloak tighter around me. Before us stood a High Priestess, cloaked in soft blue cloth that floated around her like mist. The fabric veiled her face and body, yet somehow the grace of her movements spoke for her beauty.
She faced a towering statue of the All Sight, her head tilted back in silent devotion. A slender circlet of silver, etched with the sacred Oath of Service, wrapped her brow. It caught the faint light, giving her an almost etherial quality.
The goddess's effigy was breathtaking.
Half hewn from pure white marble, half from the deepest black stone, the figure knelt nude upon a dais of frozen quartz. Her arms stretched open, palms upturned in offering to the heavens. A silken blindfold covered her eyes, hiding mortal sight, while her third eye remained uncovered, open and watchful, gazing down upon her children.
Water streamed continuously from beneath her blindfold, tracing gleaming rivulets down her cheeks, over the curves of her body, and into the wide, mirror-still pool that lapped around her knees. The sound of it, a soft, constant weeping, filled the vastness of the temple and wrapped itself around my ribs.
The sheer weight of it—the cold stone, the whispered prayers, the silent sorrow of the All Sight—pressed down against my skin, and I found myself instinctively bowing my head, a strange ache blooming in my chest.
The High Priestess's voice rose, soft and melodic, yet it carried with a strange, effortless authority. The sound of it unfurled across the temple like a silken thread, weaving through the gathered worshippers and silencing the low murmur of breath and shuffling feet as surely as if she had shouted.
The air inside the temple was thick, dense with the mingled scents of damp stone, aged incense, and the faint sweetness of frozen lilies blooming at the base of the statue's dais. Each inhale tasted of cold marble and memory, as though the very stones remembered prayers uttered long before my time.
"Today," she intoned, her voice resonant beneath the vaulted ceilings, "is the day of the Great Dying and the Great Beginning."
Outside, the winter wind howled against the temple walls, a low, mournful sound that only seemed to heighten the gravity of her words.
"Winter," she continued, "marks the months of mourning when the All Sight lost her beloved, Fiera, to the hands of Yamirea—the god of chaos, who coveted Fiera's love and could not bear its absence."
A shiver rippled through the crowd, not from the cold alone, but from the ancient sorrow that seemed to bleed from the very stone beneath our feet.
"This," the priestess said, "is a telling of the time when gods and goddesses still walked among us."
With slow, reverent grace, the High Priestess shifted her body, mirroring the sacred pose of the goddess. Her arms spread outward, the loose folds of her blue cloth falling away from her wrists like cascading water. Her palms rotated upward, fingers trembling slightly in the icy air as they reached for the unseen heavens above.
The firelight from the distant braziers flickered over her, catching on the faint silver embroidery of her robes, and for a breathless moment, she seemed not mortal at all, but something other—an echo of the divinity she served.
The heavy scent of dampness, stone, and wet flowers pressed against my senses, and I found myself gripping the folds of the cloak more tightly, grounding myself against the rising pull of awe that threatened to sweep me away.
"When the All Sight beheld her beloved's broken form, she stripped herself bare and walked willingly into the frost," the High Priestess intoned, her voice carrying a tremor of sorrow that echoed through the marble chamber. "She covered her eyes, for she could not bear to watch the slow decay of the one she loved."
The frigid air within the temple seemed to grow heavier, more brittle. My own skin prickled beneath my cloak, as if the goddess's ancient grief had seeped into the stones themselves.
"For three months," the priestess continued, her hands rising to form a diamond shape above her head, "the All Sight pleaded with the death god, Raman, begging him to return her love. Yet he could not."
The delicate ripple of water in the sacred pool punctuated her words, a soft, persistent weeping that filled the silence.
"He told her the world demanded balance. Life and death, give and take. Without such balance, the god of chaos would consume the earth in fire."
The High Priestess shifted again, seamlessly moving her body back into the All Sight's open, pleading pose. Her robe clung wetly to her arms, translucent where the fabric kissed her skin.
"And so," she said, "the All Sight endured yet another month. She cast her vision wide, searching every thread of possibility with her all-seeing eye, desperate to find a way to restore what had been lost."
A long breath swept through the temple, like the world itself exhaling in sorrow.
"But no path could be found," the priestess whispered, and her words seemed to sink into the marrow of my bones. "Her grief overflowed, and her tears filled the Great Divide, birthing the salt and fresh waters of our seas."
A thin mist rose from the pool, kissed by the faint warmth of the braziers, curling around the goddess's marble knees like ghostly offerings.
"One day," the High Priestess said, stepping slowly into the sacred waters with a soundless grace, "a mortal priestess approached her. A girl of no more than twenty years, her heart yet untouched by the darkness that now gripped the barren snows."
The High Priestess's arms arched overhead, shaping themselves into the symbol of the maiden—the heart of devotion.
"This young woman, known as Hyacinth, dared to do what few mortals ever had. She asked the grieving goddess what could be done."
The air seemed to thicken, charged with the old, untold weight of the story.
"Surprised, the All Sight spoke of her grief and loss," the priestess said, her voice dropping into a near whisper, laced with reverence. "And in the smallest, most fragile measure, the crushing weight of her mourning eased."
She paused, her hands lowering with trembling grace, the dripping fabric of her sleeves scattering droplets that rang like tiny bells against the marble.
"The girl, moved beyond reason by the goddess's sorrow, offered her life in exchange for the return of nature's beloved soul."
The High Priestess dipped her head, the silver circlet flashing in the dim light.
"But the All Sight refused. She insisted the girl should live—her life was her own to cherish, not to surrender."
The water around her feet lapped gently at the marble rim, the quiet sounds weaving through the temple like a whispered promise that this story was not yet over.
The High Priestess's hands remained lifted high above her head, fingers curled into the heart symbol of the maiden. The blue fabric of her sleeves clung to her arms, saturated and heavy with sacred water.
"The priestess left," she spoke, her voice low and resonant, "and the All Sight, believing the mortal had chosen life, felt a brief, fragile relief."
The cold pressed more insistently against my skin now, sinking into my bones, yet I hardly noticed it under the weight of the story.
"But unknown to the goddess, Hyacinth sought out Raman in secret," the priestess continued. "She knelt before the death god and begged him to take her life instead."
The temple seemed to hold its breath with us.
"Moved by her devotion, Raman agreed," the priestess said, a reverent tremor threading through her tone. "But only under one condition—that Hyacinth remain at his side in Sikarn, the underworld."
The High Priestess lowered her gaze briefly, the solemnity of the moment reflected in every inch of her body, before lifting her chin once more.
"Without hesitation," she whispered, "Hyacinth accepted. Not out of duty, nor fear, but out of love—for the gods, and most of all, for the All Sight who mourned."
Slowly, with a fluid grace that seemed to defy the chill, the High Priestess dipped her entire body into the sacred pool. The water embraced her like a living thing, rippling outward with a soft, mournful sigh that touched the temple's farthest reaches.
A complete hush fell over the crowd.
Not a single foot shifted.
Not a breath dared stir the frozen air.
The silence was not oppressive—it was full, aching with meaning, heavy with reverence that wrapped around each of us like invisible hands pressing gently against our chests.
When the priestess rose again from the pool, the sight of her stole the very breath from my lungs.
The soaked blue cloth clung to her long, slender frame, tracing the lines of her hips, her waist, the full curve of her breasts. Water dripped in slow, shimmering trails from her fingertips and the end of her braid, every droplet catching the dim braziers' light like falling stars.
With ceremonial precision, she reached up and pulled back her hood, unveiling herself.
Her beauty was almost otherworldly.
Golden eyes, rich and deep like fields of sun-drenched wheat, met ours without flinching. Heavy emerald hair, woven into a loose braid and threaded with delicate silver beads, clung wetly to her throat and shoulders. A few rogue strands pasted themselves to her cheeks and neck, framing her face with an unstudied elegance that made her seem more spirit than flesh.
Still holding the sacred pose, her hands now shifted, forming a perfect circle above her head—the symbol of Fiera reborn.
When she spoke, her full lips, kissed by the cold, did not tremble.
"And Fiera was reborn anew," she intoned, her voice swelling with quiet triumph. "Before Hyacinth's soul departed this world to live with Raman in the underworld, she created the first hyacinth flower as a gift of thanks. A beacon for bees and butterflies, and a vessel of great healing."
The heavy air seemed to lighten, just barely, with the telling.
"And slowly, the frost began to melt," the priestess said. "Life returned where death had reigned."
She lowered her arms gracefully, water dripping from her fingertips to kiss the marble floor with faint, musical splashes.
"When the goddesses reunited, Fiera declared the frost months to be sacred-a time not only of grieving, but of cleansing and to make room for new beginnings."
She turned her golden gaze over the gathered crowd, searching.
And for a fleeting moment, her eyes lingered—on me.