Chapter 3
Kess
Sunset arrives too quickly and not fast enough.
I don't find anything meaningful to do with the last of my time, don't manage to do much besides make sure everything in the cottage is in place in the very slim chance that I come back. The truth is, though, I have so few possessions that I run out of things to oil or clean or organize quickly.
My hand keeps going to my aunt's ring on my finger—checking it's there, spinning it around, feeling the worn silver warm against my skin. Then my hand drifts lower, to the red bracelet Yaern made me, and a lump forms in my throat.
She wants so badly for me to live that I can't help but worry what she'll do when I simply... don't come back. Because let's face it: this isn't like one of my heats. I won't wake up with blood in my mouth.
A soft knock at the door makes me sit up.
Yaern stands on my threshold, eyes red from crying she's been doing alone. She's holding something wrapped in cloth.
"I came early like I said I would," she says. "Before they take you."
I step aside and she enters, closing the door behind her. For a moment we just stand there in my small cottage, breathing the same air, existing in the same space one last time.
Then she unwraps the cloth.
The knife is perfect. Small, barely longer than her palm, the blade thin and wickedly sharp. The handle is wrapped in dark leather, worn smooth like it's been held many times before. Light enough to hide. Sharp enough to kill.
"It was my brother's," she says quietly. "Hunting knife. He used it for the killing stroke when we were children, before he left for the coast. I kept it, and spent the past few hours sharpening it and replacing the handle so it fits a woman's grip."
I take it from her hands. The weight is negligible. The balance is perfect. I test the edge with my thumb and blood wells immediately—razor sharp.
"Hide it in your hair," Yaern whispers. "They'll check your dress, your hands, but they won't think to search your hair properly. Work it deep. Don't let them see."
I thread it into my hair now, practicing, feeling where it sits best. Deep in the dark strands, close to my scalp where my fingers can reach even with my wrists chained.
"Thank you," I manage past the tightness in my throat.
"Don't thank me." Her voice breaks. "Kill him. Kill him for your aunt. For the forty-seven before her. For every omega who died screaming in that grove."
"I'll try."
"No." She grabs my shoulders, fierce. "Don't just try. Succeed. Put that blade through his throat and watch him bleed. Then come back here and tell me how it felt to spill his gods-damned guts."
It's the most violent thing I've ever heard her say.
I love her for it.
"If I survive," I say carefully, "I'll come back. I promise."
"When you survive." She pulls me into a hug, crushing me against her. "When, Kess. Not if."
We stand there while the sky outside slowly darkens, holding each other, neither wanting to be the first to let go.
Finally, she pulls back.
"They'll be here soon," she says, swiping at her eyes. "Get dressed. I'll see you at the square."
She slips out into the golden light of a sky approaching sunset.
I'm alone again. Like I will be at the end. Hopefully after he breathes his last breath, so I know he's dying too.
I touch the knife in my hair, taking courage from its weight, the promise of its blade.
Then I dress in my hunting leathers one last time. The familiar weight of the leather against my skin is grounding. Real. A reminder of who I am before they try to turn me into something else.
Something docile. Something sacrificial. Something already dead.
A bell tolls from the village center. Three slow, measured strikes that echo across the evening stillness.
The summons.
It's time.
-
The village square is already full when I arrive. Everyone's here—even the children, even the elderly who rarely leave their homes. This is spectacle. The moment they get to witness the dangerous omega finally leaving, the sacrifice that buys them another ten years of safety.
They should at least have the decency to look sad about it.
The elders stand on the raised platform in deep purple velvet robes with embroidery at the hems and collars—robes from the days when the treaty was fresh, now moth eaten and repaired many times over.
Elder Torim is at the center, his face set in stern lines, almost bored.
Next to him, two women hold a white dress draped over their arms like it's something precious instead of a funeral shroud.
It isn't the same dress my aunt wore—that one, the Beast King destroyed—but eerily identical.
Here's the part where I climb the steps to the platform. There's no stopping this thing now, so that's exactly what I do, each step weighty beneath me.
"Kess of Thornhaven," Elder Torim begins. "You have volunteered to serve as tribute to the dragon lord Rhystan Vhal'kar. Do you come willingly?"
"As willingly as I can." He frowns. "Yes."
"Then we will prepare you for the king according to tradition."
The two omega women step forward. The younger one speaks quietly, not meeting my eyes: "Your clothes."
I strip off my hunting leathers without any shyness at all, though it feels like I'm taking off my last bit of protective armor.
Once I'm done, I stand there on the platform in my underthings in front of the whole village.
Let them stare, let them look at what they've done—what they're willing to endure to buy their safety.
If it wasn't me, it would be Phern or some other omega girl.
The two women bring forward a small bronze tub filled with herb-scented water so they can bathe me.
They take out white clothes and dip them, then swarm around me to wash away my old life and my sins, I suppose, though nothing can clean the feral anger from my skin.
When it's done, they towel me dry and bring out the white dress.
Pure white silk that catches the morning light.
Delicate embroidery at the hem and neckline.
The kind of dress an omega might wear to her bonding if she were choosing her mate instead of being fed to a monster.
The kind of dress my aunt died in, that I have a bloodied piece of left in a wooden box under my bed in the cottage.
They slip it over my head and it settles against my skin like water.
I hate it immediately.
"Your hair," the younger woman says, reaching for my head.
"Leave it." I catch her wrist. "I'll wear it loose."
She glances at Elder Torim. He makes a quick motion of acquiescence with one hand—probably thinking I want to look beautiful for the dragon lord.
Idiot.
I need my hair loose because that's where the knife hides. Where I can reach it when my hands are chained and he's close enough to kill.
I run my fingers through my hair, letting it fall wild around my shoulders. Feel the knife settle deeper, invisible, right at the nape of my neck where I've wrapped thick strands around it.
The older woman produces a vial of oil—faintly scented with something floral. "For your wrists and throat. The scent is meant to soothe."
As if the Beast King in his murderous rut could ever be soothed.
I let her dab it on anyway. It won't matter. The moment my heat hits, my real scent will burn through any perfume.
"The manacles," Elder Torim says.
Not the real ones—those wait at the altar. These are ceremonial. Silver cuffs connected by thin silver chains, meant for the walk through the village.
He locks them around my wrists. The metal is cold, heavier than I expected even though they're little more than fancy jewelry.
"By these chains, you are bound to the sacred duty of tribute," he intones. "May the dragon lord find you worthy."
May I put my blade through his throat.
The elders descend and I follow, the chain tinkling prettily with each step, like the ceremonial thing it is. The crowd parts for us, creating a path to the forest edge.
I'm halfway through when Phern pushes forward, pulling away from her protective mother.
"Kess—" She's crying. "I know you didn't want me to thank you—"
"Don't." I keep walking. "Just don't."
"But—"
"I didn't do this for you, Phern. So go home. Live your life. Stop trying to make my sacrifice about you."
She flinches. Her mother pulls her back, glaring at me with hatred.
Maybe I am a monster. Just a different kind than the Beast King.
I keep walking.
The crowd thins as we approach the forest. Elder Torim stops at the treeline.
"We will accompany you to the valley at the foot of the king's castle, where the altar awaits," he announces.
Then, from behind them, a voice calls out: "I'm coming too."
Yaern.
She pushes through before anyone can stop her.
"You shouldn't—" Torim starts.
"She's my friend." Yaern's voice is iron, unlike the flimsy silver chains they put on me. "I'm walking with her."
He looks at her, then nods. "Fine. But you leave when we leave. Before sunset. Before the Beast King comes."
Yaern comes to stand beside me. Her hand finds mine, and we hold tight, despite the chains.
We turn together and step into the Black Forest.
-
The forest swallows us whole.
The elders walk in single file, nervous and silent.
The path winds between massive trees, moss growing thick on everything.
It smells heavy here, like loam and decay, growth and moisture and living things.
There are predators in the Black Forest, big cats and bears alike, but none get this close to the Beast King's castle.
My bare feet are quiet on the soft earth. The white dress catches on branches and thorns, tearing here and there. By the time we've gone a hundred yards, its hem is muddy and the embroidery is unspooling in places.
Good.
Yaern walks beside me in silence, her hand occasionally brushing mine when the path narrows. We don't speak. The knife hidden in my hair at the nape of my neck says it all.