Chapter 2
Kess
The village doesn't throw me a going-away party.
Can't blame them. What would they say? Congratulations on volunteering to be torn apart by a dragon shifter? Best of luck with the ritual sacrifice? Thanks for not being Phern?
That last one, at least, would be honest.
Yaern and I spent the morning preparing for my "honor" to come.
Neither one of us wants to admit that there is no real preparation for something like this, so after a few hours I pretended I had things to prepare before I leave, then headed to my grandmother's old cottage at the edge of the village—the one that became mine when she died six years ago.
It's small and dark, and smells like the herbs I dry from the rafters and the leather I oil for my hunting gear. Not much, but it's mine.
Was mine.
By tomorrow it'll belong to someone else, and it'll be like I never existed at all. If they wait that long, that is. For all I know it'll be taken by noon.
I should feel something about that. Loss, maybe. Grief.
Instead I just feel restless.
I clean my weapons because it's something to do with my hands.
My bow first—running the oiled cloth along the wooden curve, checking the string for frays, making sure the tension is perfect even though I won't be taking it with me.
They'll dress me in white and chain me to an altar.
No weapons allowed for the sacrificial omega.
But Yaern said she'd help me prepare. Which means she's thinking the same thing I am.
There are ways to hide a blade. Ways to keep your hands free even when chained. Ways to turn a tribute into an assassin.
He'll be in rut when he comes to the altar, and that means coming close enough that I'll be able to stab him.
But there's no telling how long it'll be before his rage takes over and he tries to kill me.
Yaern and I have gone over what we each know, stories passed through generations, records from times when the elders watched the tribute or went through the pieces of the survivor's remains.
The omegas who survived longest were the ones who submitted right away, hoped their soft omega biology would anchor his feral nature.
I've never been the submissive type.
I plan to die with his blood on my hands.
I practice the motion—reaching up fast, hand to hair, pulling something free, slashing out. My hands need to know it by instinct, need to move without thinking when the moment comes. When my heat has me half-feral and my wrists are chained and I have one chance at his throat.
A knock interrupts my shadow-fighting.
I open the door to find Phern standing there, hands twisted in her skirt, eyes red from crying. The gaslight draws long shadows on her face.
"I wanted to thank you," she starts, voice small and trembling.
"Don't." I school my face to neutral, hating how this moment feels. "Don't make this into something it's not."
"But you saved me—"
"I didn't save you. I just couldn't watch them send a child." The words come out harsher than I intend. "Go home, Phern. Live a long life. Don't waste it thinking about me."
"You're going to try to kill him." Not a question.
I don't deny it.
"They say no one can kill the Beast King," she whispers. "That he doesn't bleed or feel pain. That no one who's ever tried has gotten even close to slaying him."
"Then I'll be the one to finish the job." I step back, hand on the door. "Go home. Forget about me. It's what everyone else in the village will do."
She looks like she wants to say something, like there's some kind of meaningful thing you can say to someone who's about to die violently. Instead she just nods once and runs back toward the village center, blonde hair streaming behind her.
I close the door and lean against it, taking a deep breath in and out, a pang of regret going through me at how cold I just was to her.
It was for the best. I can't afford attachments. Can't afford people caring whether I live or die. It makes this harder.
Better she thinks I'm cold. Better she forgets me fast.
I return to polishing my weapons.
-
The memory comes unbidden while I'm oiling my bow.
Ten years ago. I was twelve.
My aunt Isla stands in the village square, wearing a white dress that looks like a funeral shroud.
She's eighteen, beautiful in a way I'll never be—soft features, gentle eyes, everything an omega should be.
Her skin isn't tanned or scarred, her hair is blonde and soft, her expression demure, and her curves speak of women's work.
Not like my muscles and callouses, my scars and my scowl or the dark hair the villagers say looks smoke-stained and coarse.
The elders chain her wrists with lightweight ceremonial silver. Not the real chains—those wait at the altar. These are just for show, for the walk through the village to the forest edge. A cruel little punchline, part of a long line of tradition.
She looks at me once before they lead her away. Tries to smile, to make it all better, but she's so scared that it doesn't quite work.
I remember thinking: she's already dead. They just haven't buried her yet.
Six weeks later, a dragon swooped down and dropped off her belongings in a wooden box, flying away without even stopping to see if we gave a shit. Her mother's ring. A lock of her hair. A scrap of white fabric so soaked with blood it's nearly black.
My grandmother opens the box, looks inside, and closes it without a word. She never speaks of Isla again. Just keeps that box on a shelf and pretends her daughter hadn't been fed to a monster.
I hated her for that silence. Hated how the village moved on like Isla never existed. Hated how they called it honor instead of murder.
Now I'm walking the same path, only unlike my aunt, I don't plan on putting on a brave smile. I plan on biting that motherfucker's dick off.
I set down the bow and pick up my hunting knife instead. The one I use for field dressing kills. The blade is stained dark from years of blood, the handle worn smooth from my grip.
I can't take this one with me. It's too big, too obvious. Yaern will bring me something smaller. Something that can hide in my hair or clothing without anyone finding it and taking it away.
But I can practice.
I close my eyes and imagine how it'll all go down. At some point, in his rut fever, I'll get access to his throat. Surely in human form he'll be vulnerable, with the same arteries as the rest of us.
My heat will be raging by the time he arrives; it started last night and for the next three days will come with sunset and fade with the dawn.
Usually I'd dread that, but the rage that comes with it might actually help—make me faster, stronger, less likely to hesitate.
I just have to make sure I get the timing right, that I'm still conscious and me when I kill him.
Otherwise, who knows what my feral heat-addled self will do.
If I'm going to black out anyway, I might as well black out mid-murder attempt.
-
Yaern arrives at my door with a basket and a determined expression, the sun hanging low in the sky behind her, not long from sunset now.
"You're not spending your last hours alone brooding with an empty stomach," she announces, sweeping past me into the cottage. "I brought food."
"I'm not brooding. I'm preparing."
"You're pacing and staring at knives." She starts unpacking bread, cheese, dried meat, and a bottle of something that makes my eyes water when she uncorks it. "That's brooding."
"It's being thorough."
"It's obsessive." She pours two cups of whatever's in the bottle. "Drink. If you're walking to your death tonight, at least do it with decent food in your belly."
I take the cup and drink. It burns all the way down, then blooms into warmth in my chest. "Fuck. That's awful."
"I know." Yaern grins, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "That's why it's perfect."
We eat in silence for a while. The food tastes like ash in my mouth, but I force it down because she made it for me, because this is our last normal meal together.
When we're done, she sets down her cup and looks at me with that expression I know too well. The one that means she's about to say something I won't want to hear.
"Tell me your plan so we can go over it," she says.
"Why bother?"
"Kess." That look. The one that says she knows me too well to believe my deflection. "You promised not to give up, so don't give up. How are you going to try to kill him?"
I lean back in my chair. "When they chain me to the altar, my wrists will be bound but my hands stay free—I checked the old descriptions. The manacles go on the wrists, arms spread. When he shifts to human form and gets close, I'll have one chance to strike."
She nods slowly. "I'm working on it. Something small. Concealable." A pause. "You'll have it tonight before you leave."
Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for helping you die." Her voice cracks. "Thank me if you survive."
"Yaern—"
"I know. I know you think you're not coming back." She grabs my hand across the table. "But you're wrong about something. You think fighting means dying faster. But maybe—maybe for you, it means living longer."
"What are you talking about?"
"The stories we grew up hearing. The ones about the tributes." She leans forward, intense. "You know what they all had in common? The ones who died fastest?"
I shake my head.
"They were all docile omegas. Soft. Submissive. The kind whose scent is supposed to calm alpha rage." She squeezes my hand. "You're not that kind of omega. You never have been. Your scent is wrong. Your heat is wrong. Everything about you is different from what they expect."
"Your point?"
"My point is maybe you're not wrong. Maybe you're exactly what an omega needs to be to survive him. Maybe the reason all those gentle omegas died is because they weren't what his beast actually needs."
I want to argue. Want to tell her that hope is dangerous, that she's setting herself up for grief.
But something in her words catches. Holds.
The omegas who died all were the type that smelled like honey and rain, whose heats made them pliant and desperate to please.
I smell like smoke and blood and burning things.
My heats make me violent.
What if she's right? What if I'm not broken—just different?
"I still have to try to kill him," I say quietly. "Even if I could survive his claiming, he's still a monster who demands tributes. Who's killed forty-seven omegas. That has to stop."
"I know." Yaern stands and moves around the table to hug me. "I just... I needed you to know that I think you can survive this. Even if you don't believe it yourself."
I let myself be held. Let myself have this moment of comfort before I walk into the dark.
"I'm scared," I admit. The words taste strange in my mouth. I'm not used to admitting fear.
"Good." She pulls back to look at me. "Fear will keep you sharp. Just don't let it make you hesitate when the moment comes."
"I won't."
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If you see a chance to live—even the smallest opening—promise you'll take it. Promise you won't just throw your life away. Even if running means that you don't kill him, just do it, just run as soon as you get the chance."
I want to promise. Want to give her that comfort.
But I've never been good at lying to Yaern.
"I'll do what I can," I say instead. "That's the best I can offer."
She knows it's not a promise. But she nods anyway, accepting what I can give.
We sit together in the fading light, not talking, just being present with each other. She tells me stories about the village, gossip I'll never hear the ending of. I let the words wash over me, memorizing the sound of her voice.
When she finally stands to leave, she pulls something from her pocket.
A cord bracelet. Simple, woven from red thread.
"I made this for you," she says. "For protection. It probably won't work, but—"
"I'll wear it." I tie it around my wrist. "Thank you."
"I have to finish working on your knife," she says. "I'll have it ready by tonight. Before the elders come for you."
I nod. It feels too soon. Too soon to say goodbye, knowing that just this morning we had no idea it would end this way.
She hugs me one more time—fierce and desperate—then slips out into the bright afternoon light.
I'm alone.
I should do... something with the rest of my time. In just a few hours I'll be chained to an altar in the wounds, and my death with be brutal and my fight probably pointless.
Instead I sit by the window and stare out towards the Black Forest. Somewhere out there, in his mountain fortress, the Beast King waits. Does he know a tribute is coming? Does he care which omega they send?
Does he feel anything at all when they die?
I touch the cord around my wrist. Yaern's protection. Her hope.
I can't afford hope. Can't believe in my own survival.
All I've ever had to count on is rage.
I close my eyes and feed the anger—every slight, every fear, every time the village looked at me like I was something dangerous that needed to be contained. My aunt's blood-soaked dress. Phern's terrified face. The forty-seven omegas who will never be remembered again.
All of it.
All of them.
I'll carry their ghosts with me tonight. Let their deaths fuel my strike.
Against the back of my eyelids, I imagine a world of blood and fire and a throat opening under my hands.
May the best beast win.