Virgin Sacrifice Breaks Free
Description
When Zahra's mountain village revives an ancient virgin sacrifice and crowns steadfast Rafi as heir, celebration curdles into dread: Zahra's thirteen-year-old sister is chosen. Forced into a public alliance to calm the tribe, Zahra and Rafi discover a private tenderness that defies the rite binding them both. In stolen conversations and risky plans, their connection deepens-sweet, secret, and far more dangerous than either will admit. But winter hardens, and the village's faith demands blood. To save Leila, they must gamble not only their futures but their fragile feelings-love that might unmake a tradition older than the mountain itself...or be the very price it claims.
Chapter 1
Oct 30, 2025
POV Zahra
The drums pound through my chest, matching the wild rhythm of my heart as I spin through the dancers.
Snow clings to the edges of our celebration circle, but the bonfire at its center burns hot enough to make me forget the mountain's bitter cold.
Steam rises from the mulled wine in my hands, mingling with the clouds of our breath in the frigid air.
"Zahra, you're not dancing!" My friend Yasmin grabs my arm, pulling me toward the circle of bodies moving to the music. "This is the biggest celebration we've had in years. Even bigger than last winter's solstice feast."
"I know, but something feels different tonight," I tell her, resisting her pull. "Look at the elders. They're watching us, younger ones, like hawks circling prey."
"You worry too much. They're probably just making sure we don't drink all the wine." Yasmin laughs, but I catch the nervous edge beneath her words. She feels it too—this electric anticipation crackling through the crowd like lightning before a storm.
That's when Rafi brushes past me, his shoulder grazing mine as he spins through the dancers.
The contact sends a jolt through my body—snow and flame at once. His skin radiates warmth despite the winter night's bite, and for a moment, I can't breathe.
"Careful there," he says, steadying me with a hand on my elbow. His dark brown hair falls across those broad shoulders, and I have to look up to meet his eyes. When did he get so tall? "The ground's slick with ice. Wouldn't want the weaver's daughter taking a tumble."
"I can manage perfectly well without your help, thank you," I snap back, pulling away from his grip. But my cheeks burn, and not from the cold.
"Always so fierce, Zahra." His laugh rumbles deep in his chest. "Some things never change."
"And some things change too much," I counter, gesturing at the scars crossing his muscular frame, visible where his tunic hangs open despite the cold. "You're not the boy who used to cry when he scraped his knee anymore."
"No," he agrees, his expression growing serious. "I'm not. And after tonight—"
The drum strikes, loud and commanding, cutting through our conversation. Rafi's father, Ammar, stands on the raised platform near the fire, and the celebration stills instantly. The music dies, leaving only the crackling of flames and the whisper of wind through pine branches.
"Today is a special occasion—more so than any other," Ammar's voice booms across the gathering. His weathered face glows orange in the firelight, making him look like one of the old gods carved into the mountain stones. "As you know, my son has reached the age of manhood."
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Beside me, Rafi straightens, his jaw clenching. I want to ask what's wrong, but Ammar continues before I can speak.
"Today, in this sacred winter season, I name him my successor: the leader, the protector of the tribe."
The crowd erupts. People shout congratulations, raising their cups high. Women ululate, their cries echoing off the mountain slopes. But I watch Rafi's face, and what I see there isn't joy—it's resignation.
Ammar lifts his hand, and silence falls like snow. "And as such, we will perform a ceremony to summon luck and avert disaster, so that under his reign the tribe knows only peace through the harsh winters ahead."
A flicker of excitement rises in my chest. A ceremony? What kind of ritual would mark such an important transition? I glance around and realize with a chill that has nothing to do with winter that the adults' faces show no surprise, only grim understanding. It's only us—the younger ones—who look puzzled.
"A sacrifice to satisfy the gods," Ammar declares. "Something pure to declare our pure intentions. Something unsullied, so that our tribe knows no stain." He pauses, his eyes scanning the crowd. "A virgin."
The word hangs in the frozen air like an executioner's axe. My blood turns to ice water in my veins. A virgin sacrifice?
The old stories flood back—tales whispered by grandmothers about the ancient ways, the dark prices paid for prosperity.
"Surely he doesn't mean—" Yasmin starts to whisper, but her words die as movement catches our attention.
My parents push through the crowd, their winter cloaks billowing behind them. My father's face is set with determination, my mother's with something that might be pride. My stomach drops.
"Let our daughter be chosen for this honor," my father announces, his voice carrying across the silent gathering.
For one brief, foolish moment, I think they mean me. My legs tense, ready to run, but then I see where their hands fall—on my younger sister's shoulders.
"Leila," I breathe, the name barely a whisper.
They urge her forward, and she stumbles slightly on the icy ground.
Thirteen years old, wrapped in her best embroidered shawl, Leila looks like a lamb being led to slaughter. Her eyes are wide with confusion and something else—is it pride? Does she even understand what they're asking of her?
"No," I say, but my voice is lost in the murmur of approval from the crowd.
Ammar studies my sister with calculating eyes, measuring her worth like a merchant examining goods. The firelight flickers across his face, and for a moment, he looks inhuman—ancient and terrible.
"She is pure?" he asks my parents.
"As fresh snow on the mountain peak," my mother confirms, her voice steady. "She has known no man, kept herself devoted to household duties and prayer."
"Her blood will ensure prosperity for the tribe," my father adds. "We offer her gladly for this honor."
Honor. They keep using that word, but all I can see is my little sister's trembling hands, the way she clutches her shawl like armor against the cold and the crowd's hungry gaze.
Ammar nods slowly, decisively. "The gods will be pleased. The girl is accepted."
I don’t move. Bodies sway and surge around me, but I’m rooted, watching as the tide carries Leila toward the platform where Ammar stands already with Rafi. Torch smoke scratches my throat; the roar of celebration splinters into cutting whispers.
"Good that it isn’t ours," a woman hisses near me.
"Praise the gods," a man answers. "Hakam and Samira are so devoted to offer their own child. A true example."
Leila looks back once. Her eyes find mine—so trusting it hurts—and I feel something inside me crack, clean and sharp.
I open my mouth. The words don’t come. Air hangs heavy as a wet cloth. I want to say no. I want to shout “stop.” I want to call Leila’s name so loudly the mountains answer. But I can’t.
Virgin Sacrifice Breaks Free
30 Chapters
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