1. Winter Hunt
These villagers never told her everything. Even after nearly seven years of living here, she still felt like an outsider. She supposed it couldn't be helped—that was just the nature of this village from its very beginnings.
Nestled deep in the mountains, the village was insular, its roads cut off whenever snow fell. Naturally, the bonds among the villagers ran deep, while they regarded outsiders with excessive wariness.
At least the children of similar age had grown up together, easing some of their suspicion, but the adults remained unmoved. They always considered Arishte and her father outsiders, never fully revealing anything to them.
While Arishte found their insularity disheartening, she also understood it well enough. Scattered throughout the mountains, villages often overlapped in hunting grounds, fostering intense competition and vigilance.
It was unusual, then, for an outsider to settle in such a village.
There were four special hunters. One, whose face bore a long scar that looked like it came from a beast's sharp claw, glanced around as he sharpened his gun and sword. It was clear his body, hidden beneath thick furs, must be covered with wounds of varying sizes. The man beside him wore an eye patch. A long scar running down to the back of his neck was also visible. They had the unmistakable look of men who had returned from the brink multiple times.
There were hunters in the village too, and most bore a scar or two like a badge of honor, but the scars on these men somehow looked more vicious. They seemed far larger and deeper than those inflicted by ordinary beasts.
The scarred man suddenly turned his head toward where Arishte was standing. She immediately lowered her gaze and pulled her hood down further.
Arishte hurried her steps. She was thinking about how many bread crusts were left at home and how many days she could stretch the potatoes she'd just received into soup when she found herself in front of her house.
Like the other villagers' homes, hers was a log cabin. As she was about to step onto the wooden staircase, someone called out from behind.
"Arishte."
Startled, she turned.
"Ma'am."
It was Mrs. Reed, her next-door neighbor. She was one of the few who had always been kind to her and her father, never losing her gentle smile.
"What's the matter?"
Beside Mrs. Reed stood Gallon, the village head of Vito.
"Well, the weather's turned so cold. I was worried about you, living all alone."
Mrs. Reed approached with a good-natured laugh, taking Arishte's hand.
"Goodness, look at these pretty hands. So rough."
Arishte's hands were wrapped tightly with cloth. Braving the cold to dig for herbs in the snow left her hands perpetually chafed.
"It's the same for everyone, I suppose."
Unless one were a noble, smooth hands were a luxury. The women of Vito, too, worked the fields while the men hunted, or used the fur, hides, and antlers from the game their husbands and sons brought back to make clothes and crafts.
Their hands were just as rough, but Arishte's were worse. She had to plunge her hands into the snow to break up the frozen earth and dig for herbs. Her hands were chapped and cracked. To make a good moisturizing ointment, she needed animal fat and milk—both scarce in winter when game was hard to come by.
"I'm fine."
Arishte pulled her hand from Mrs. Reed's. Such kindness felt unfamiliar. It wasn't as if she had experienced gentle, amiable villagers for only a year or two—their nature was simply not soft or kind.
Even when they came to her, the village's only apothecary, for treatment or medicine, they rarely offered a proper word of thanks.
So she felt a strange unease. The overly beaming smiles, the unexpected visit under the guise of concern, the prying into her circumstances.
Arishte looked at Gallon standing behind Mrs. Reed. The village head, whose hair and beard were completely white, was a man who rarely showed expression. He lived solely for the peace and prosperity of the village, as he had since becoming village head at a young age.
That he had accepted Arishte and her father, outsiders, was unusual. But with the villagers' full support, they had all complied with his decision.
Thus, he was her benefactor. Even so, she had never felt entirely at ease with him.
"You've come, Village Head."
"Let's talk inside. It's cold. The blizzard has stopped, but it looks like more snow is coming."
Mrs. Reed laughed boisterously, pulling Arishte along by the hand. Gallon moved his stone-like frame and walked toward them. Without a word, Arishte climbed the steps and opened the cabin door.
"I don't have much to offer."
The iron pot that should have been simmering soup had been empty for days. A couple of stale bread crusts hung by the hearth.
"Goodness, what's this."
Mrs. Reed clicked her tongue, peering inside.
"If things were this bad, you should have said something. We're not strangers."
"I managed to get a few potatoes. Thank you."
Mrs. Reed lifted the lid of Arishte's basket and, upon seeing the sprouting potatoes, frowned.
"They gave you these withered things. I'll bring you a few more. They'll be plumper than these."
"......"
Arishte's eyes widened. To share food in winter? Instead of gratitude, suspicion rose first.
"You're such a waste here, you know."
Mrs. Reed spoke suddenly, stroking a lock of hair that had escaped Arishte's hood.
"You're the prettiest in the village. You've caught the eye of all the men."
As Mrs. Reed's hand traced down the side of her face, Arishte felt an inexplicable chill. Instinctively, she shook it off.
"......"
Mrs. Reed looked a little taken aback before withdrawing her hand. Then, very softly, she added:
"A pretty face should earn its keep."
For a moment, Arishte thought she'd misheard. Before she could ask, Gallon cleared his throat.
"Arishte."
"Yes."
She turned toward him.
"Please, speak."
"I came to discuss something with you."
"......"
What could the village head possibly want to discuss with her? Why was her heart pounding so? Could it be that after all this time, he was finally going to drive her out? The insecurity she'd harbored ever since settling in this village reared its head again.
Surely not, after seven years. They wouldn't just cast her out overnight because she wasn't born here. She was trying to suppress her anxiety when Gallon spoke.
"You haven't provided this winter's emergency provisions yet."
His voice was graver than ever.
"About that... once I've made the ointment from the herbs..."
"The village needs food. We've been making exceptions for you all this time."
Mrs. Reed interjected quickly.
"You can't expect to live here for free forever, can you?"
"I've never lived here for free."
Arishte shook her head firmly. It wasn't an empty excuse—it was the truth.
"I treat the sick, and I make all the medicine."
While she paid a nominal fee, it was paltry. She had never hesitated to tend to anyone, even if it meant waking in the middle of the night. So now, hearing this, felt unfair.
"Well, that's true enough. But without that skill, you wouldn't be living here at all."
Mrs. Reed spoke casually, her amiable face belying her cutting words.
"So, here's the thing."
"......"
"How would you like to help manage the village's affairs?"
"Manage the affairs?
Arishte couldn't parse what Mrs. Reed was saying. She looked at her, bewildered.
"Alongside the Village Head."
Thud.
The basket in her hand dropped to the floor. The potatoes inside tumbled out, bouncing and rolling across the floor.
"What... do you mean?"
Thinking she'd misheard, Arishte blinked repeatedly. No, it can't be that. She tried to reassure herself, but Mrs. Reed spoke again.
"Just what I said."
Mrs. Reed laughed from beside her.
"Becoming the Village Head's wife."
"Wife...?"
"That's right. The village's lady. It's not a bad match, you know."
"What are you saying? The Village Head is older than my father was."
Hmph. Gallon cleared his throat. Mrs. Reed glanced at him, then lowered her voice, whispering to Arishte.
"Shh, you shouldn't say things like that. Don't be so childish. You're old enough now. The village is in a difficult place—we can't accommodate you forever."
There was something accusatory in Mrs. Reed's tone. As if the root of all their problems was Arishte. She was at a loss for words.
"If you can't meet your quota, you need to start a family. With a strong husband, you'll have a much easier life."
"Village Head."
Feeling that further conversation with Mrs. Reed was pointless, Arishte turned to face Gallon. But the sinister look in his eyes, meeting hers for an instant, made her realize something had gone terribly wrong.
"No... I won't."
Arishte stepped back. Fear rose instinctively, stiff and undeniable. As she shook her head, the two people before her fixed her with eyes that hardened like cold tallow.
"You haven't met this month's quota, have you?"
The Village Head spoke again.
"Please wait a little longer. Once I've made the ointment..."
"I don't need that. I want food."
"You said herbs were acceptable."
"We need food. Not your medicine."
"......"
Arishte stared at the village head, at a loss for words.
Your medicine. It was something she never imagined would come from the village head's mouth. She, who remembered clearly how she and her father had been accepted into this village, found it utterly absurd.
"The Village Head is offering to take you in. You're practically an orphan with nowhere to go. The least you could do is be grateful."
"Grateful? Don't be ridiculous."
Mrs. Reed seized Arishte's hand tightly.
"Arishte."
Mrs. Reed's tone was firm now, unlike before. The strength in her grip was different too.
Arishte frowned. With an instinctive revulsion, she shook off the hand as if it were something filthy, then walked briskly toward the door.
"Please leave."
Standing at the doorway, she exhaled deeply. The humiliation and disgrace she had just endured were unforgivable. Hiding her trembling hands, she took a deep breath.
Despite the clear dismissal, the village head and Mrs. Reed merely stared at each other, showing no sign of leaving.
"I said get out!"
Arishte finally lost her composure and shoved the door open wide. The village head and Mrs. Reed exchanged glances, then walked toward the exit.
"What a waste of a good opportunity."
"You know what happens if you don't meet your quota by the deadline, don't you?"
Their cursed words left a lingering echo.
***
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