William grimaced but said nothing.
Latecia went on, her voice low and deliberate, the rhythm of it rolling like some half-whispered conjure:
"Wendigo, cher… they find one mate for life. Don' matter man or woman. Jus' one. But they don't call it love the way you do. They call it the Ikhtan Winter. Sounds pretty, don't it? Ha. It ain't. It's hell."
Her drawl folded around the words, thick with an uneasy weight.
"They bury the chosen one. Alive. In frozen ground, mid-winter. Sometimes they give 'em a narrow pipe o' air, just enough so they don' choke outright. But the cold, the hunger—it gnaws through bone an' mind. Then… then comes the feasting."
She leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
"They feed that poor soul human flesh. Not all at once, no. Piece by piece. Slow. Weeks of it. Meals that stick in the throat 'til you don't taste it no more, but swallow anyway 'cause your belly is screamin' for life. That's the first lesson."
