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I won’t condemn Cress in my wake.

Warily, I cross the room and sit on the tufted stool. Father must take my obedience as a dismissal because he pats Viv’s shoulder on his way out, muttering about failures and disappointments under his breath.

Vivian stands behind me, working my tangles through boar bristles. “Remember how I used to do this for you all the time when we were little?”

I remember everything we shared when we were children. This vanity, that bathing chamber, the entire second floor of the manor. Not because we had to, but because we wanted to. We’d slept in the same enormous bed together, staying up late and using a witchlight to read or draw or tell scary stories before we’d spook ourselves and run crying into Father’s room. Mornings spent scarfing down breakfast and afternoons playing hide and seek. During winter, we’d catch snowflakes with our tongues, and in the peak of summer, we’d beg our nursemaid to drench us with buckets of water.

“I remember,” I say, unable to stop longing for those moments when we were temporarily free of the chains binding us together and the blade that will tear us apart.

“Back then, you didn’t hate me so much.” She works another knot out of my hair. “You know, it would be admirable if you spent tonight embracing your destiny instead of resenting it.”

Admirable. There is nothing admirable about sacrifices and needless death.

I scoff. “I’m embracing your destiny, Vivvy. Isn’t that enough for you? Or do you need me to wear a fucking smile while I do it?”

“Don’t you dare try to guilt me into having regrets about what I must do for Norica. If the creatures were allowed to live, they would rise up and conquer mortalkind just to use us as slaves.” She sets the brush back on the vanity and reaches for a hair elixir. As she massages the oil into my scalp, she says, “Your sacrifice is⁠—”

“—for the greater good,” I finish in a rush, refusing to meet her eyes in the mirror. “So you all keep saying.”

I just don’t believe that. Not when my best friend is a werewolf and my most recent paramour is a vampire. I cannot—I do not—believe my death is for the greater good. It’s for… for the mortal kings and their unquenchable thirst for power over those different than us.

They are nothing without the blood of their sacrifices.

The mortal kings, the hunters… they are nothing without me and others like me.

“For what it’s worth,” Viv adds as she picks up a handful of pins and braiding several pieces of hair out of my face. She places a crown of fresh ivory chrysanthemum blossoms on top of my head. “You’re going to be the most beautiful sacrifice in all five kingdoms.”

The dining room is overflowing with hunters, trackers, King Joal’s personal escort of two dozen guards, and a handful of traitorous witches.

The burly king sits at the head of the table, sandwiched between Vivvy and Father. The rest of the uncomfortable wooden chairs are packed with faces I do not recognize, aside from Brutus—who’s sporting two black eyes and a broken nose.

Father doesn’t so much as glance at me. Tonight, he’s the most dressed up I’ve ever seen him, with his dark hair combed back and tied with a crimson ribbon and his beard shaved into a tight goatee. He wears a finely tailored suit and tie and seems every bit the lord he’s trampled his way to be.

Feet dragging across the freshly mopped floor, King Joal’s favorite witch leads me across the room like a reluctant ghost toward a dais and the sacrificial throne opposite the high table. Through the lace of my veil, I just barely make out the decorations. Both table and throne are draped with ribbon and pearls and chrysanthemum blossoms dipped in red wine. Their scent—earthy with sweet undertones—fills the room. It is cloying, suffocating.

Standing silently, my gaze drifts to King Joal, if only for a moment. He is handsome in his old age, with an alabaster face bearing the signs of a life filled with as much happiness as there was sadness. His posture is astute, the gleaming crown resting on his head glistening under the chandelier witchlights. Currently, he’s entranced by something Vivian is saying, laughing and touching her arm.

Moments pass before the witch drifts over to the king and whispers in his ear. He rises to his feet, his full focus shifting to me. It takes effort not to cower beneath his attention, beneath the contempt emanating from him. The rest of the room follows suit. I bow my head in deference as my cheeks warm. Surely, they can’t all be gaping at me. I steal a glance at the table and wish I hadn’t.

They most certainly are all staring at me.

The sacrifice who tried to run.

“Much to her dismay, the sacrifice has arrived,” King Joal boasts. The room erupts into applause, and it’s like there’s a shift in the air because when I sneak another glance, I’m no longer worth their attention. Every hunter and tracker, even Father, fixates on the king, on Vivvy. “It is with a heavy heart that we must acknowledge the hunters we lost last night. Let us have a moment of silence for each soul.” He pauses for a beat, two… Eight beats pass before he lifts his head and says, “Thankfully, we will gain another hunter tonight. Let us feast in prayer of another successful ascension.”

At that, servants sidle into the room, carrying trays of delicious food—rosemary chicken, potatoes cut into wedges and crisped to a light golden brown, and a platter of root vegetables seasoned with herbs grown in our very own backyard.

Herbs I planted, tended, and grew.

Herbs I should’ve let rot.

I don’t mean that. Not really.

Maybe I do. Just a little.

Father acknowledges me with a cursory tilt to his head and a conqueror’s glimmer simmering in our matching hazel eyes.

Cup after cup of wine fills and drains. My stomach rumbles as loose-lipped conversations pick up, and I latch onto bits and pieces, hoping for news of Quill, but there’s nothing interesting enough to warrant more than a moment of my attention.