You notice it only because the mountain forgets to stay still.
The snow doesn’t fall —
it shivers,
tiny tremors of white
as if the sky is bracing
for something turning beneath your feet.
Your footsteps make no sound.
Your breath drops straight down,
too heavy,
as if the air refuses to carry anything alive.
And then you see it:
the ridge.
Opening.
Not cracking.
Opening —
a long, slow fold of stone
like a giant eyelid lifting.
A warm breath rolls out,
impossible in winter,
smelling of iron
and centuries kept underground.
You’re late.
Hours late.
But the mountain is already awake,
waiting.
Inside the fissure,
quartz pillars glow with a dull amber pulse.
Shadows lean forward.
Not moving —
leaning,
as if listening for your name.
Then he steps out.
Not walking.
Emerging.
A cloak trailing dust from forgotten empires.
A crown like shattered gold,
fractured into the shape of a broken clock.
And one amber eye,
opening slowly,
deliberately,
measuring you
the way kings measure time —
not in seconds,
but in sacrifices.
You try to step back,
but the snow sinks with you,
as if the whole mountain shifts
to keep you close.
A voice you’ve heard only in stories
whispers from the stone behind you —
too near,
too old,
too certain:
“Come closer…
before the year you cherish most
slips into my hands.”
You run.
Through snow that moves like breath.
Through fog that closes behind you
without wind.
Past cliffs that tilt the wrong way when you look back.
At dawn, hikers find your glove on the trail.
Not torn.
Not dropped.
Softened to powder
fine enough to blow away with a sigh.
They say the Untersberg walks in winter.
They say the Emperor sleeps beneath it
until the mountain calls a name worth taking.
And now it knows yours.
You are not disappearing.
You’ve been chosen.
❓ If the mountain opened its eye
and the Emperor stepped out to claim you…
would you stay still,
or run before he decides which year of your life to take?
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