The king climbed to the highest point of the castle to survey his dying city. The night was bright from the stars and moon, and the smoking remnants hurt his heart. He could see bodies of the gallant defenders lying in the streets and knew that unless a miracle occurred, they would lie there for many days to come.

Illness had killed more of his citizens than the desert dwellers, but that hardly mattered. What mattered was that he had been holding out hope that winter would come early and chase their enemies away. That was the only way any of his advisers could see that would lead to their survival, but the days had been uncannily warm; not a hint of a freeze could be felt, so he had been urged to flee. He had come up here for one last sorrowful goodbye and to pray for a miracle.

Most of his advisers didn’t believe in such things, but his mother had told him as a child that the old crones and wise women of the city always knew secrets that the others refused. When he had sought them out, they had given him an alternative – an ancient ritual to hasten winter’s arrival. The problem: it required the sacrifice of a life given willingly. He had informed his family, and his daughter had volunteered immediately. He had forbidden it.

Now he wanted to rage at the unfairness of the world. Why was there no other way? How could anyone expect him to allow his daughter to die for them? He loved his city and his people, and it killed him inside to think about what would happen when the enemies came next against their walls. It would be a slaughter, especially without their king to support them. But he loved his daughter more than anything.

He glanced at the ground far below. The height made him dizzy, and he looked to the sparkling stars instead. He watched as a trio of soft white birds flew overhead. His stomach twisted in a moment of terror and jealousy. Why couldn’t he join them? Why hadn’t humans been born with wings? Why couldn’t he and everyone else simply fly away from all this?

He shut his eyes and thought of his daughter and his city. He thought of all the soldiers who had given their lives for him. He thought of all the mothers weeping for their sons and husbands, who were decomposing in the streets. And he thought of his daughter volunteering to do what no-one else would. Even if he could convince his allies to retake his kingdom, it would never be the same. And he would be ashamed of it.

The king blinked as a third option slowly sank into his brain. It terrified him, and he shook his head to expel it, but it was the only way. Tears began to slip down his face. The night breeze attempted to whisk them away, and he grieved silently for a time.

Then he took a deep breath and tilted himself forward, the words of the spell on his lips. The wind rushed past him, whipped his hair back, and tore at his clothes. He was flying, he thought ironically, and then he opened his eyes to see the world soaring up to meet him.

The earth crunched as he met it. The air left his body, and he immediately felt a wave of cold take him. His world went black and then slowly returned. He could see the ground stretch out away from him. He could see his hand laying open against the dirt. He could not move it. He could not feel anything at all.

And then he saw something drop from the sky. At first it looked like a white feather, pillowing slightly in the breeze until it came to rest beside his open hand. It was too small though. He blinked, and it was gone. It was gone, just like the birds, just like his kingdom, and just like his future. What had he done? What had possessed him to listen to those old crones and throw his life away?

Another spec floated down beside him, this time settling beneath his eyes, and as his vision swam, he realized what it was: a snowflake.

His mind smiled as a haze washed over him. The ritual had worked. That was why he was cold, he thought. He imagined the snow falling thick and fast and taking the enemy by surprise. They would wake to a world unknown to them. His people would suffer, but they would survive. His daughter would survive. And he would join the bodies in the streets, erased by the snow.

The sacrifice was worth it, he decided as his thoughts dissipated into a cold quiet nothingness. He had gotten to fly.