Page 2 of Blood Beneath the Snow

The priest at the altar began speaking in a resounding voice. “Welcome to the Winter Ritual, beloved citizens of Bhorglid. Today marks the beginning of a new year, one filled with great hope for our country. Even now, we wage holy war against Kryllian, our armies drawing closer to taking over the southernmost country in the Fjordlands.”

A cheer erupted around us, and I suppressed a sigh of irritation. The godtouched in the crowd, whose partners, parents, and children fought on the front lines, were ecstatic to hear it repeated: their loved ones weren’t fighting in just any war. No, it was aholywar. Decreed by the gods.

The priest continued, “Generations ago, the Fjordlands were stolen from us. We, who communicate directly with the gods. Instead of harmony, discord was wrought and the Fjordlands were split into three. For thirteen generations, the gods have mourned with us as we have waited for their perfect timing. Now you are blessed to be part of the chosen few alive to see this miracle come to pass. Kryllian shall be rightfully ours. The gods have declared it.”

I tried not to let my emotions show on my face. The speech had been the same every year since the war began, but it never failed to make me wince. Halvar had been the one to explain to me years ago how the priest’s version of this story had been edited in Bhorglid’s favor. Only those who passed on the original stories verbally still knew the truth. He’d been lucky enough to come from a family that didn’t embrace the revisionist version of our history.

In actuality, the Fjordlands had been filled with wandering people, those with magical abilities and those without living in peace—until a pair with powers far beyond what was necessary for mortal man decided they could speak with the gods. And according to them, the gods said those with abilities had been blessed.Godtouched.

The rest of us weregodforsaken. Forgotten by our holy pantheon, called unworthy from the moment we entered the world. While the godtouched enjoyed innate abilities that allowed them to manipulate elements of the world around them, the way the gods had once done as they walked the land millennia ago, the rest of us were normal. Shunted to the edge of a society where an invisible group of gods claimed we were lesser.

The speech grated against my nerves like the screech of a metal fork across a ceramic plate. Enduring the rest of this drivel was going to kill me. I was ready to move, ready to wreak havoc, ready to wrap my hands around the nearest priest’s throat and rip their veil off. Only watching the light fade from their eyes would be enough to calm me.

Freja snatched my hand and squeezed. “No,” she hissed. “We have to wait until they’ve brought out the child.”

My hands shook with fury against hers. But she was right. The priests enabled the foul treatment of the godforsaken, but we weren’t here to rid ourselves of them. Today was about saving a life, not taking it.

Even if I wished it were possible to do both.

The priest droned on, but I focused on Freja’s words and nodded, forcing myself to breathe deeply. The godtouched around us were too intent on listening to the priests to notice me acting strangely.

The ritual speech continued despite my swirling thoughts. “As we perform the new year ritual, this unholy blood will be a tribute to the gods. In exchange for our sacrifice, they will grant us their power. We will gain a powerful advantage in this war; with the vanquishing of this life, we will be able to defeat the Hellbringer. The gods have declared it so.”

Freja squeezed my hand again, barely in time to keep an indignant huff from escaping me. This part of the speech was new, the logic as incomprehensible as the rest. How would killing an infant grant us the power to stop the most powerful godtouched being to exist in any of our lifetimes and end the war? As Freja released my hand, the queen gestured to the side of the stage for several acolytes to bring someone forward. I glanced over but couldn’t make out the woman’s face; the figure was hunched at an odd angle and a low moan emanated from her mouth. There was a wriggling bundle clutched to her chest. My stomach sank, the way it did every year.

The priest took the infant out of the person’s arms and began to move toward the altar.

The figure left in the shadows—undoubtedly the child’s mother, a godforsaken woman—let out a haunting scream, her wail of anguish echoing through the square and silencing everyone, even the godtouched. I clenched my teeth. The screams were always the worst part. Worse than the blood. The mother collapsed to her knees and howling sobs cracked the silence.

Freja and I were the only ones who appeared affected. The priests’ expressions were carefully hidden behind their face coverings and the godtouched on either side of us were reverently silent, waiting for spilled blood to spell their salvation. The queen curled her lip at the bundle in the priest’s arms as he set it carefully on the altar.

As he laid it down, it wriggled, and a tiny hand emerged from the blankets.

Seeing the movement made my throat raw. The last child born to godforsaken parents each year was always culled—a horrifying euphemism—as a sacrifice to the gods. Only the youngest, freshest blood would do for this brutal tradition, repeated winter after winter.

“Now,” I said to Freja as anger sparked in my stomach. “We go now.”

She reached into her pocket and pressed something. The infant let out a wail. The godtouched were poised, on their toes, ready for action; behind me, I could feel the raw defeat of the godforsaken.

Without warning, a boom echoed through the courtyard and smoke began to pour from the top of the temple, obscuring the priests and the queen from view. The gray clouds billowed out into the square. Cries of panic rose from the blindness.

“Good work,” I whispered to Freja. When Freja had first mentioned Halvar was training her to use explosives, I was wary—now Ihad no time for anything but gratitude. We dashed up the temple steps toward the chaotic scene.

The priests were coughing, having a more difficult time breathing through their veils. The queen fanned the air with a hand, snarling. But there was no time to think; the priest at the altar raised his scythe above his head, undeterred and ready to strike.

I pulled my sword from under my cloak and lunged forward until the sound of metal on metal grated against my ears.

The priest hadn’t expected the collision. When the scythe connected with my sword, he stumbled, and I seized my opportunity. Sprinting forward, I grabbed the infant off the altar and dashed the other way.

The queen let out an angry scream.

“They’re coming,” I said, voice panicked as I handed the baby to Freja. The shadows of the alleyway where she waited obscured her features. “Run.”

She traded me a bundle of fabric for the infant and took off, sprinting through the streets.

I sent up a silent prayer.Gods, if you’re real, please keep that baby from crying.

The smoke was clearing. Footsteps pounded behind me. The priest from the altar was getting closer. People in the crowd coughed, crying out with fear and confusion.

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