The girl shoved him away. He let her wrists slip through his fingers. She scrambled backward, and she poked her tongue out at him. Their laughter faded as they scrambled about the snow and gathered their fallen packages. It was then they noticed the red.
Small patches of it bloomed in the white behind them, a bright and vivid trail. The girl frowned. She touched between her legs, and her fingers came away sticky with blood.
“What—” Her question cut off as something extraordinary happened.
Her blood sank into the snow, then surged upward—green splitting white. The stem writhed as it grew, each thorny tendril reaching for the sky until the bud emerged like a wound healing in reverse.
A rose.
The boy’s chest tightened. The girl froze, her face pale, her hands trembling.
“That’s…” he whispered.
Somewhere deep in the village, bells began to toll.
The girl flinched as the boy grabbed her arm, his fingers tightening protectively. Around them, the townsfolk had already stopped in their tracks, their gazes fixed on the rose.
“Her blood is fertile,” one murmured.
“She’s a bride,” another said.
“Not just a bride.Thebride.”
“Queen,” someone else shouted.
“She’s the Queen Bride!”
The girl shook her head, her breaths coming fast and shallow. “No,” she cried. “No, I’m not.”
But the rose in the snow said otherwise.
A crimson bloom against the white, its unnatural petals unfurled, bright and hopeful. The thorns encircling it gleamed like polished obsidian, sharp as blades. Such roses did not grow here—did not grow anywhere in this frozen, dying world. Yet here it was, born from her womb’s first blood, a sign both ancient and terrible.
Long ago, it was said that Amara, the Goddess of Creation, had blessed the world with roses, symbols of her gift of life. But Amara’s voice fell silent when the kingdoms descended into war, their greedy armies clashing endlessly in pursuit of power. Death consumed Life. The sacred groves burned, the temples crumbled, and her daughters were silenced. On the longest night of the thousandth year, Amara withdrew from the mortal plane to settle amongst the stars, her grief too heavy to bear.
Her departure left the world cold and barren. Generation after generation, fertility faded like the sun in winter. The few born were celebrated yet cursed, hunted for the hope they carried.
Kasaros, the Trickster God of Chaos, grew bitter about the Goddess’s abandonment, for what fun was a game without an opponent? But he refused to stop encouraging war. Instead, he sought balance by bringing fertile females from other worlds for the warriors who pleased him most.
Still, there was a catch.
Each warrior must hunt, fight, and claim a bride as their prize during an annual Hunt.
The girl stared at the fragile newborn rose, her breath shallow and unsteady. She wanted to deny it, to pretend the flower wasn’t there, that her blood hadn’t summoned it, but the crowd gathering around them was proof enough. Whispers rippled through the air, hushed and reverent, tinged with awe and fear.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” the boy said. “We’ll just go home, pack our things and?—”
Market sounds died first—the crunch of boots in snow, the murmur of haggling, a child’s distant cry. Then came the shadow, devouring light as it crawled across the rose, turning crimson and white to black until it swallowed them entirely. Slowly, they looked up.
The Huntsman was here.
Everything about the behemoth warned of power, pain, or misery. His dark jacket was dusted with sharp, frosted shards. Weapons bristled from hidden compartments—daggers strapped to his forearms, a curved blade at his hip, and a bow slung across his back. A hood framed his face in shadow, but it was his mask that made the blood run cold.
A painted white grin splits black silk over his face like a scar. Each breath made the fabric pulse like the Laughing God himself struggled to break free. Cold, empty eyes moved over the rose, the blood, and finally, the girl. The weight of his gaze pinned her in place, her breath freezing in her lungs.
The boy stepped in front of her, his arms spread wide. “She’s too young,” he declared, voice cracking. “You can’t take her. It’s not fair!”
The Huntsman tilted his head. A faint crease in the mask’s fabric twisted the painted smile into something darker.
