Picture by: artofznerol_dfjkfzw
Story written by me, I wrote it originally in spanish , since is my first language, for my kids of creative writing class, but I translated it by myself with a little help of DeepL, since is more accurate than Google translate so, I hope you like it.
"The Winter Market"
The market appeard with the first frost, as it did every year. Overnite, the empty town square transformed into a bustling haven of stalls draped in silver and blue, their awnings shimering like ice. No one ever saw the venders arrive or leave. By dawn, the market was just there, as though it had grown from the frost itself.
Shannara pulled her woolen scarf tighter around her neck, her breath fogging in the chill air. She’d heard the stories—everyone had. The Winter Market was no ordinary bazar. The goods sold here weren’t things you could find in any other place. They were treasures ment only for the brave, the foulish, or the desprate.
Shannara was desprate.
Her younger sister, Linneth, had been struggling with a fever for five days now. It burned hot and relentless, leaving her tossing and mumbling in delirim. The villige healer had tryed everything—cold cloths, poultices, bitter teas—but nothing broke the fever’s grip. Shannara had scoured the woods for herbs, even begued remedies from a wandering apothecary. Nothing helped. Now, as Linneth’s breaths grew shallow and her skin clammy as melted snow, Shannara knew she had to try the market.
The square buzzed with life as she aproached. The air smelled of spices, woodsmoke, and something sharper, almost metalic. Vendors called out from their stalls, their voices melodic and strange.
“Frostberries, fresh from the peeks! A single bite grants courage for a lifetime!”
“Dreamcatchers spun from moonlite—banish nightmares forever!”
“Keys to doors that no longer exist!”
Shannara’s heart raced as she wove through the crowd. The goods were as peculair as the vendors themselves. One stall was run by a woman with hair that seemed to shimmer like a raven’s wing, her eyes an unsetling shade of gold. Another was manned by a figure so tall their head nearly brushed the icy garlands strung above. They wore a mask shaped like a fox’s face, their voice low and velvety as they offered charms for sale.
She was scanning the stalls when a voice spoke softly from behind her.
“I know what you seek.”
Shannara spun around, nearly colliding with an old man who seemed to have appeard from the shadows. He was hunched behind a small, nearly invisible stall tucked between two larger, bigger displays. His pale blue eyes gleammed like frozen ponds.
“Y-yeah?” she stamerd, her voice trembling. “What is it?”
The man tilted his head, a faint smile curling his thin lips. “Something to heal your sister, perhaps?”
Her heart skipped. “How—how do you know about Linneth?”
“I am Boreas,” he said, his name whispering through the air like a gust of wind. He straightened slightly, and for the first time, Shannara noticed his cloak, stitched from what looked like threads of frost. “The north winter wind knows a great many things.”
Her mouth went dry. “You know my name, too, don’t you?”
Boreas’s smile deepened. “Shannara, you’ve carried desperation in your heart for days now. It clings to you like frost on glass.”
“How do you—” She stoped herself, her breath hitching. She didn’t need to ask. There was something uncanney about him, something ancient.
Boreas gestured to his table, where a single object sat: a glass vial filled with liquid that shimmered like starlite.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Essense of winter,” Boreas said, his tone reverent. “A single drop will heal any ailment, soothe any pain.”
Her breath caught. “How much?”
“The price isn’t coin,” Boreas said, his icy gaze fixed on hers. “It’s something more... personal.”
Shannara hesitated. She’d heard this, too—that the Winter Market didn’t deal in ordinary currency. The venders wanted memories, dreams, and pieces of the soul.
“What do you want?” she asked, her voice trembling.
Boreas’s smile softened, but his eyes remained sharp. “Your warmest memory. The moment you’ve cherished most.”
Shannara froze. Her warmest memory... She didn’t have to think hard to know what it was. It was the summer day she and Linneth had spent by the river, splashing in the cool water and laughing until their sides ached. The last day they saw their mother in good health, playing with them, before she got sicked and the angel of death tooked her away… Linneth’s cheeks had been flushed with joy, her laughter ringing clear and bright in the warm air.
Could she give that up?
Her gaze droped to the vial. Linneth’s frail face flashed in her mind, her forehead burning under Shannara’s touch, her breaths uneven.
“I’ll do it,” she said, her voice firm despite the lump in her throat.
Boreas nodded, his expression unreadable. “Hold out your hand.”
Shannara obeyed, and Boreas reached into his cloak, pulling out a feather-thin blade made of ice. He touched it gently to her palm. For a moment, warmth flooded her, the memory of that summer day rushing back in vivid detail—the sunlight on her skin, Linneth’s laughter ringing in her ears. Their beautiful mother, playing with them… Then it was gone, leaving an aching emptyness in its place.
Boreas handed her the vial. “The essense will work immediatly. Use it wisely.”
Shannara clutched it tightly, her heart pounding. She didn’t thank him. She couldn’t find the words.
She ran all the way home, her boots slipping on patches of snow. When she reached Linneth’s bedside, she carefully uncorked the vial and let a single drop fall onto her sister’s cracked lips.
For a moment, nothing happend. Then Linneth’s eyes fluttered open, their brown depths brighter than they’d been in weeks. Her cheeks flushed with color, and when she sat up, the fever was gone.
“Shan?” Linneth asked, her voice small but steady. “What happened?”
Shannara smiled, though it felt hollow. “You’re better now. That’s all that matters.”
Linneth hugged her, her warmth seeping into Shannara’s cold, tired bones. But as Shannara held her sister, she realized she couldn’t recall the sound of Linneth’s laughter by the river or the way the sunlight had danced in her hair. The memory was gone, like a piece of herself had been carved away.
The Winter Market had given her what she wanted. But as Shannara watched the frost creeping up the windowpane, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d lost more than she’d bargained for.
