Winter in my village sits heavy, the air thick with frost and expectation. I am Zayohn, taller than any man or woman here, and my height makes me as much a curiosity as the legends we whisper about—especially now, as the Yule season approaches. This year, everyone talks of the Yule Lads, those mischievous spirits from the mountains. But unease laces every tale; only fourteen will come, not fifteen, and the elders mutter that something is amiss.Just as the snow begins to fall in earnest, my only true best friend, my father, Alexander, falls gravely ill. He is pale and feverish, and each day he only grows weaker.

I stand by his side, helping him stand when he needs it, making as many bowls of chicken soup as he needs, giving him spoons of medicine, or maybe even telling him stories as he did when I was 5 and couldn’t sleep without a glass of milk and a really good story.

 I act as strong as he would, but inside, I am shattered. I’ve never seen him so . It’s as if we had completely swapped roles. 

One day, I wake up, and he is shaking, shivering like crazy, his lips blue. I throw some blankets on top of him and turn on the heater to its highest setting. His shivering slows down as I begin to sweat. He looks relaxed but still very pale.

We have called many, many doctors and professionals, but now I know only one specific healer can help my father through this, and she is our only hope. I call in The Village Healer. We rarely ever call her, especially with how low we are on money, but I’d be willing to spend ALL my college money for my dad to get better. 

“Zayohn?” His weak voice calls out to me, and I rush to his side.

“Yes, Father?” I ask, thankful he is still able to talk to me through his weakness.

“I don’t think I can do this any longer…” 

My eyes widened at his words, completely understanding what he meant with those nine words.

“No Father, don't give up just yet, I know what to do… we’re…” My voice falters as doubt creeps in. “We’re gonna get through this together,” I say firmly. He doesn't say anything and closes his eyes, and I see a single tear stream down his face; he rarely ever cries. I realized in that moment how sick and stressed he truly is.

 The last time and only time I’d seen him cry was when my mother had passed, and that was around 8 years ago. I remember her very vividly. I loved her dearly, and she loved me just as much. Though I know no one loved her nearly as much as my father did. We could be at our lowest point in life, and he still would have managed to get her mangoes and flowers; it always brought a sparkle to her eyes. She loved mangoes, probably more than she loved me. Seeing them happy made me happy. 

At her wake, he hadn’t left the casket once in those 5 hours. He watched her, he cried, watched her, kissed her, then cried again.

He and his brother-in-laws all lined up at the casket and shut the casket together, then put her down and buried her. He tried to act strong for me, but I saw through it all. He’d come back home with terrible eye bags, a mango in one hand, and flowers in the other. He seemed to do just that for the next 5 years until he finally accepted it; she was dead, and no amount of mangoes would bring her back.  

The three light taps at the door break my train of thought, and I rush to open it. There stands The Village Healer with a bright smile and soft eye,crinkling at the end. 

“Good evening, Zayohn, you called?” She greets. She looks very, very familiar, and I find myself staring, trying to figure out what about her seems so familiar.

“Yes ma’am..uh.. Right this way, please,” I lead her to my father, who looks like he is very near death. A wave of emotion washes over me.

“My word! What has happened here?” The Village Healer asks, shock written in her facial expression.“We have not the slightest clue. He’s been like this for the past 3 months,” I reply with my voice filled with emotion as I really realized how long this sickness has been going on. She examines him.

“I’ll need you to step out for a moment while I take a few tests with his blood.” She orders. I reluctantly exit the room, but stop for a second and take one more glance at him. The Village Healers ushers me out, and I stand at the door waiting.

After what seems like 10 years, The Village Healer finally steps out, completely solemn. My heart drops once again.  She shakes her head,

“The only thing that could cure him is the Frostbloom Herb, and that is a very rare find.” She says. 

My back straightens, and I look her dead in the eye,

“Tell me what to do.”

 I’m willing to do anything for my dad. I’ve already lost one, I’m not losing another. Not now, not two weeks before his 52nd birthday.

She tells me that it only appears when the Yule Lads appear and that no one knows where to find it except perhaps the Yule Lads themselves. Desperation fills me. If I am to save Alexander, I must seek out the Yule Lads and find the Frostbloom Herb, no matter how strange or perilous the journey.

2 days earlier than usual December 9, the village is a web of dangerously icy footprints–Frostpoii’s work. I spot his blue coat and frosty eyebrows in the moonlight. I follow the trail he leaves. At the center, pressed into the frost, is a rune I’ve never seen before.

 2 days later, December 12 Echo arrives. Suddenly, the villagers’ voices are swapped: the baker has the Smith’s baritone, the Smith squeaks with the baker’s chirp. Echo’s mismatched eyes glitter as she slips through the chaos, leaving a riddle scribbled on her windowsill. I pocket the clue, determined to collect them all.

December 13, Meltwhistle whistles low and long, and snow melts in rivers through the streets, flooding cellars and alleys. He moves gently, wreathed in mist, and as he passes, he tucks a cryptic message into my coat pocket. 

December 14, Switchcap dashes through homes, switching hats–even as their owner sleeps. Laughter and confusion fill the morning, and inside my own hat I find once again another rune sewn into the lining. 

On Sheep-Cote-Clod’s night, -December 15- all the milk disappears and the sheep hide in the corners. Panic and laughter mix, but I catch sight of him ducking away, leaving a milky rune drawn on my window.

December 16, Mirrorface’s work is subtle: reflections twist and change, villagers see strangers in their mirrors. My own reflections are replaced by a message, written in fog, that only I can read.

Bellringer’s night, -December 17- is a wild cacophony. Every bell–church, school, shops–rings at once. I find a tiny bell in my coat pocket, engraved with a riddle. I think deeply.

On December 18, RoSellaflicker dims and brightens the lanterns, weaving through the village like a shadow. In the glow of my lantern, I find a sliver of parchment with a shimmering symbol.

December 19, Runleaver scratches cryptic letters into the frost of every window. I decipher the runes for hours, realizing they’re part of a large map.

December 20, Fogjumper shrouded the village in thick, swirling fog. Navigating by touch, I stumble upon a clue hidden in the folds of my scarf.