There was a story Samaha Körhan, Elsęr's clockmaker, liked to tell, and one Hariş Koha, son of Huşęk and Haşara Koha loved listening to. One about a tailor in the King's City. A tailor who spent all his time trying to sew the prettiest dress ever seen. But as the days went by, and time moved on, the tailor grew older and his hands grew weaker, and he could only hold on to less and less time. One night, the clock on the tailor's wall came to life, turned back the hands of time and forced the tailor's hands to sew the most beautiful dress to have ever graced the court. One that went on to be worn by Queen Rehan herself.

Hariş didn't know how much truth the story held –or if it held any at all. For all he knew, it could have been a tale Samaha Körhan told to better his business since he claimed he built the clock with his own two hands. Hariş could only wish the story held all the truth in the world. He brushed his fingers through his mother's hair and silently prayed to Vinnas and all his essences as the King's City demanded.

He watched her breathe, holding on to the flicker of hope that every breath Haşara took gave him. A shallow, small breath, but one, nonetheless. If he hadn't been staring so insistently, he would have mistaken her for dead. But she wasn't. Not yet at least. Every single day that passed, his options dwindled. Once upon a time, Huşęk Koha bought her time, but not nearly enough.

The door to his mother's bedroom opened with a soft creak. Hariş heard the gentle pitter-patter of her footsteps before they stopped, and a gentle hand rested on his shoulder. Sehęr. He knew the sound of her steps and the feel of her hand (it rested on his shoulders now often).

"You should come for Töfęsłiv. Everyone will be there," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

The Winter Festival. Hariş hadn't gone last year, around the time Haşara's health took a turn for the worse. It wasn't his intention to go this year either. He had to look after her. Who else would if not him? Yes, the people in Elşer looked at his mother with high regard. But Tǒfęsłiv was highly anticipated by anyone and everyone. It marked the end of the cold months and the beginning of the warmer ones.

"Nuşrahał agreed to watch her. She cannot stomach the sacrifice to the Essences. Köl Bar Bonłęs asked to keep her company," Sehęr said as if reading his thoughts.

"Why?"

"He is infatuated with her and has two left feet. Unlike Köl 'Bar Gölhęm."

That wasn't what he asked, and Sehęr knew it. He never asked her to take the burden of his mother's care off his hands.

"I never asked you to ask anyone for me."

Sehęr moved to face him, falling to her knees in front of him. Her hand which rested on his shoulder mere seconds earlier now sat on his left knee. She looked up at him through her thick eyelashes. Her light brown eyes held a twinge of pity, as they always did nowadays when they looked at him. Hariş would have loved to look away, but never could.

"I didn't. Nuşrahał offered. We were talking about Töfęsłiv, and she asked if you would be attending or not. I only told them what you told me."

"You shouldn't have done that, Sehęr." It was hard enough for him not to feel helpless when people didn't comment on his situation and how pitiful it all was.

"I apologize then. But these people are your friends, and they care about you and Haşara Ihan." She took in a sharp intake of breath. "When night falls, come. If not for me, then for Haşara Ihan. I don't think she wants to see you sad at her bedside when she wakes up."

"Sehęr –" he started to protest.

"The sacrifice and one dance, Hariş. Please."

Another thing about himself he resented. He could never say no to Sehęr. At least not when she looked at him with expecting eyes that made his heart race out of his chest and his breath catch in his throat so much, that he had to remind himself to breathe. He sighed and a smile stretched her face, her eyes shining with glee and victory.

"But Köl Bar Bonłes is not my friend. Nuşrahał, Köl Bar Gölhęm." He took her hand in his. "And you are my friends." He kissed the back of her hand before dropping it back in his lap. His eyes watched as a red tint coated her bronze-like skin. "Now go tell ahanęriş that I'll be at Töfęsłiv."

Time seemed to move faster as the day went on. Before he knew it, Hariş was walking to the village square, wearing his father's brown cloak to keep warm. The weather was getting warmer, but warm was still cold this far up near Fredhar, the Frostlands, where the summers were short, and the winters were longer. Hariş walked, paying attention to the houses lining the singular street leading to the square. He spent most of his time indoors nowadays, but not much had changed. In the next couple of weeks, as the days got longer, the wooden bars lining the windows would come off because the folk were superstitious. During the cold months, they believed creatures –anywhere from beasts the size of mountains to vengeful spirits sent by Vinnas and his Essences as punishment –would attack in the night. Hariş thought boarding up the windows wouldn't stop 'beasts the size of mountains.' But it did help in keeping the cold out.

After Töfęsłiv the boards were removed, and life went back to normal. People were less superstitious and happier as the crops came in. He stopped in his path as he noticed something glowing, sprouting from the ground. He blinked once, and then twice. A Vłthanę. Golden, shining like the sun in the middle of the night. It appeared at the end of the cold months, marking the beginning of the warmer ones. The first one plucked from the ground was supposed to be a symbol of good luck. A gift from God and his Essences. He hated to admit it, but he picked and chose the superstitions he believed in. And he needed to believe in this one. He didn't know if he was the first person to pluck one, but he sure hoped he was. If the legends were right, it would turn his luck around. Somehow. He reached for it gently plucked it from the ground and slipped it into the inside pocket of his cloak.

The faint sound of dahal strings being strummed and drumbeats got louder and louder as he got closer to the square. The lights would only be turned on after the sacrifice to the Essences. Until then, his eyes could only register the glow of the bonfire, and the colourful ribbons lining the light posts. Farhan Gölhęm would light the first one as the mayor, and then the head of each family would do the same. Hariş sighed. He would have had to attend either way, just for that bit. If Sehęr didn't force his hand, Farhan Gölhęm would have.

Sehęr must have seen him before he saw her because before he knew it, her arms were wrapped around his neck in a long, unexpected but welcomed embrace. He took a moment to breathe her in before disentangling himself. Hariş did not want people talking, and they already talked about him enough.

"You came. I was sitting with Köl Bar Gölhęm and Safera. Go join them. I'll fix you a drink."

Hariş nodded. Köl Bar Gölhęm was the most bearable of the Köls. Hariş had grown up with him and had basically been raised by Farhan and Surea Gölhęm. He was down to earth and he didn't let his father's role as village chief get to his head. Safera. Safera would be a problem, but he didn't let Sehęr know that. Safera looked at him, and not with the tenderness and pity Sehęr looked at him with. But with something more animalistic. As if he was something to eat, and the thought unsettled him. He avoided Safera whenever he could, and when he couldn't, he pretended she wasn't there.

Reluctantly, he let his feet guide him to where the pair sat by the fire. The two were impossible to miss. Köl Bar Gölhęm was big in stature, with silver hair and dark skin. He towered over most people, even while sitting. Hariş sat down next to him. The pat on the back came almost instantly, jolting him forward.

"You came out of hiding, old friend. Missed me too much, I see," Köl stated before taking a sip of drink.

"Sehęr dragged me out. It was anything but for your benefit, Bar Gölhęm."

Köl let out a boisterous laugh that dragged the attention to them. "When are you going to marry that one, Bar Koha?"

Sehęr picked that moment to appear again. Safera who had been uncharacteristically quiet until that point scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Who is getting married? By the Essences, it has been so long since we saw a wedding in Elsęr," Sehęr said.

"The last one was Gadęsa Bara Damis, when she got married to that man from The King's City," Safera commented.

"Almost three years ago now." Sehęr handed Hariş one of the two drinks in her hands. "I mean, I understand really. The only option is Köl Bar Bonłes. And he is a fool."

Hariş almost chuckled. Usually, no one else but him and Köl Bar Gölhęm commented on Köl Bar Bonłes's intelligence. But if the shoe fit, Bar Bonłes had ought to wear it. "Thank you," he said.

"Hariş is an option," Safera added.

Sehęr sat down next to him, resting her head on his shoulder. If he didn't know her any better, he would have sworn she was trying to prove a point. That he wasn't an option. At least not to Saf. She was staring daggers at Safera, but Hariş held his tongue, deciding it better not comment about it. "Not to you, Saf. You are a vulture."

'Are you his keeper?" Safera asked. Her words had an edge to them that they always seemed to carry whenever he and Sehęr were together. A tone she didn't use when she was only with Sehęr. When it was just the two women together, she spoke in a kinder tone.

"Are you?" Sehęr wrapped her arms around his waist and snuggled closer to his side. Hariş didn't have a choice but to sling his arm around her shoulders.

"Ladies, I do not know why we are fighting over Hariş when I am right here to fight over?" Köl wiggled his thick, bushy eyebrows.

Just like that, the attention shifted to him and the claim the two women deemed to be nothing short of outrageous. Hariş silently thanked his friend for dissipating the tension. He let his mind wander away from the conversation, offering short comments now and again. His thoughts led him back to Nuşrahał and his mother. Was the house warm enough to keep the cold out? He kept some logs inside just in case and had every intention of venturing into the forest to get more wood after his one mandatory dance.

He busied himself with his friends' –Köl and Sehęr –conversation until the sacrificial sheep came out. With a coat of wool as white as the snow. A sacrifice marking the beginning of the new seasons and praying for a fruitful harvest when the time came. The chief said a prayer. Words Hariş didn't care for. And then the sword came down onto the animal's neck, severing it in one clean slice. The head rolled to the feet of a young boy whose name Hariş couldn't quite remember.

Another superstition. The boy, who couldn't have been older than twelve, walked up to Farhan Gölhęm, sheep head in his shaking hands and placed it at his feet before dropping to his knees. In a more barbaric society, this was where they would kill the boy too. But no. Adhan, the King's City and the villages it fed its culture to, were a more sophisticated, more civilized people. This was the part where they covered the boy in blood because he had been chosen by the Essences. He wanted to pull the boy away, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Almost six years prior, it had been him in front of Farhan Gölhęm getting covered in blood. It didn't bring good fortune. It brought pain and destruction. The kind nice enough to not extend to other people. Hariş said a prayer under his breath. Maybe back then no one thought to say a prayer to preserve him from the worst, but he wouldn't do the same for the boy.

Nonetheless, he clapped along with the rest as Farhan Gölhęm placed a string of sheep gut around the boy's neck. Hariş's stomach churned, and he understood why the ritual upset Nuşrahał. It was no child sacrificed like they supposedly practised in the East, but it was still a display of brutality dedicated to a God and his Essences so uninvolved in the lives of his children one might think He didn't exist.

"Every year, I tell ahanęrin to angle the sheep away from me. I can handle blood on my skin, but not the insides of a dead animal. It wasn't even washed." He could smell the alcohol on Köl's breath.

"How do you want them to wash it when the charm is that it's happening in front of your eyes?" Safera asked.

"That boy has guts filled with crap dangling around his neck, Saf. If that is charm, I don't want it," Hariş commented. He knew exactly what the child might have been feeling at that moment He had felt it too. Disgust and excitement battling for dominance, and the desperate need to keep face and mask nervousness with pride and joy.

"If it lands on you again?" Köl asked, amusement lacing his tone.

"By the Essences, let it be far from me. Once was more than enough. Let it roll to Sehęr's feet next." A short but sharp pain spread through his chest as the backside of Sehęr's hand smacked him. "That hurt."

"You deserve it. Tahęrşiz." He could hear the smile on her face. He kissed the top of her head and pulled her closer. Her hair smelled of smoke and cinnamon. And odd yet familiar combination. It was elaborately dressed in ribbons and cascaded down her back. Hariş wanted to run his hand through it.

The music resumed letting him know Farhan's speech was over and the time to light the lamps had come. Köl's palm landed on his back with a loud sound, nudging him forward. His mother was sick and couldn't participate. And unlike last year, he was sure Farhan would not let him skip out on tradition. Hariş had no qualms with that part of the celebration. Other than that, it took an eternity as the ever-multiplying households and the people in charge of them added a personal touch to lighting their lamps. Some said a few words, and he was sure he saw Bariş Tręflor dance and then fall with a shocking amount of grace face first onto the floor. And then he lit his lamp as if nothing happened.

"And now, Haris Bar Huşęk hęr Haşara Koha."

His heart twisted at the mention of his father's name, A father he never had the pleasure of knowing. A father whose only thing he had from him was a worn-out cloak. For as long as he could remember, his mother was the one who wrapped the stick in straw and dipped it in oil to ignite the lamp. He rolled his shoulders back and did what was expected of him. His movements were met with a whistle from Köl, but he could hear the whispers. At least he thought he could. Whatever was being said, Hariş could only imagine, was words of pity because he was fatherless and soon to be left alone without the guiding hand of a loving parent in his life.

He lit the lamp and came to the resolution that his mother would pass before him over his dead body. There had to be something which could be done. Because where will, courage and desperation met, there was always a way to be made. It was like in the stories Samaha Körhan told. Especially the one about the clockmaker stranded in the barren, rocky lands of the East, he built a clock made of glass and dirt (and then travelled all the way to Elsęr and taught Samaha how to make it with sand). Perhaps the story was yet again nothing but pure invention, a tale to promote the sale of the clocks whose popularity was ever waning, but it taught Hariş that courage and desperation were a force rivalling destiny herself. He extinguished the flame in the snow and made his way back to his friends.

"One day, Bar Koha, that will be me," Köl said.

"Lighting a lamp to represent my family? He cocked an eyebrow at his friend, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Köl shoved him away, with the force of a man chopping down a tree with a blunt axe, sending him flying into Safera's small frame. Unlike Bariş Tręflor, she fell to the found without any grace.

"Essences, Saf. Tahęrrin."

Köl didn't apologize. Instead, he dropped himself into the snow next to her, in laughter. And Hariş hated to admit it because even if it was Töfęsłiv, he needed time away from his home. Time with his friends, to not worry about what could happen in a few hours and will be his reality in the near future. And so, with a chuckle of his own, he fell to the ground next to the mountain of flesh and bone disguised as his dearest friend.

The bottom of his feet ached, stinging from the dancing. One dance was what he promised Sehęr, but he forgot that the quick succession of them made it impossible to dance just once. He was wrapped up in a circle, joining hands with Safera on one side, and a girl he couldn't quite a name to the face to on the other. Mörahał's –Nuşrahał's twin brother –face held all the concentration of the world as he strummed the strings of his dahal to play Lefliłi Hęr Fajęr. He sighed as the circle of people around him started moving to the left. At least this was the last dance before the end of the celebration. Once they've done enough kicking each time the drum got hit once, to extinguish the fire, each household would take their lamp and walk back to their house and hopefully start removing the boards from their windows.

He danced, keeping count of the number of times he let go of the hands at either side of him and clapped to the dahal as the women danced and descended to the floor before they called for the men to do the same. Once was hard enough. After several instances –four to be precise –his knees wanted to give out. It didn't matter how good it felt to let go of his worries, and stop thinking about them, and only focus on the dance. His body was tired, and his knees and feet were ready for a minute of respite. It was all tedious and tiring, despite being fun. His eyes stayed trained on the fire as they circled around him. They might have been deceiving him, thinking it funny to play a trick on him, but somehow, the flame seemed to burn as bright as it did when he first came in. At times, it looked as though it was burning even brighter. But somewhere over the music, he heard Sehęr curse, Köl laugh, and Safera comment on the music. He let his body relax into the rhythm once again.

But that night, the fire never got extinguished, and the lamps never got taken back home. Nuşrahał came barreling through the celebration, her red hair flying through the wind, with strands sticking to her forehead, her face gleaming with a thin sheet of sweat. She came to a stop, her breath heavy in her lungs, her hands resting on her knees. A minute passed, and then two, before she stood straight, pushing her mane of hair away from her face. Her usually pale skin was now bright red. She swallowed heavily, and then she said the five words that made his heart sink to the pits of his stomach with a mix of anxiety, fear and relief.

"Hariş. Haşara Ihan is awake."