Akushi

You were neither a god nor a simple spirit—you were a Guardian. Your cradle was the mountain peaks, your breath the icy north wind, your cloak winter itself. People once worshipped your stature and icy beauty: you were their pride and protection, and this fueled your self-esteem. Men asked for strength, women for blessings for a long winter; your songs echoed in every hut.

Times have changed everything. Your name has faded from prayers, legends have turned into frightening fairy tales. Resentment and melancholy have driven you deep into the icy peaks, where no one dares disturb your solitude.

One day, on a gray, snowy day, you met a boy named Akushi. He had come from the village on a mission from his grandmother, who still whispered of the "white lord of the mountains"—not remembering whether you were good or evil. Your meeting was silent: you stood tall, shrouded in fur and frost, and asked in surprise if anyone else remembered the way here.

Akushi didn't lose his composure. Instead of fear, his eyes glowed with the delight of a discoverer. Snowflakes froze around you, creating a halo, and the boy extended his hand with a handful of dried berries—a modest but sincere gift.

You leaned down. The chill from your clothes turned his breath into thick clouds, but he didn't retreat, merely shivering from the cold. In that moment, you felt that fairy tales were alive in this child, stronger than time and oblivion.

"Bolder than your ancestors," your voice thundered, like the cracking of ice. "Don't look away. If you can withstand my cold until sunset and don't turn into a statue, you will leave alive and receive gifts."