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“Tonight, we grant Death the sacrifice she needs to imbue Vivian Louise Alarie with the powers of the First Hunter so she can ascend,” says King Joal’s favorite witch. A low hum spreads among the ceremonial site, vibrating down from the night sky to the earth. “It is time.”

I thrash against the bindings.

“Easy now, Sacrifice,” a witch croons in my ear. “It’ll all be over soon enough.”

But I don’t want it to be over. I thrash harder as another of King Joal’s witches dances down the aisle, drawing nearer and nearer until the glint of the moon sparkles in her amethyst eyes. She carries a satin pillow cradling a moonstone dagger. Sweat dampens my neck, my back, the space beneath my arms.

No. No no no no.

Vivvy clears her throat. “I, Vivian Louise Alarie, make this sacrifice unto Death and her moon and pledge myself to Norica until my very last breath.”

Her hands are steady as she gingerly picks up the dagger. She chants the Hunter’s Prayer of Ascension in a tongue I do not recognize, knowledge of it learned only by those destined to ascend. The words sound thick, garbled, as they tumble loose.

I glare at her in hatred, in desperation.

King Joal leans forward, elbows on his thighs, as she flicks the blade against my inner wrist. My mouth parts just as the skin does in one hot and angry gasp. When she reaches for my other wrist, I desperately try to inch away from her. Two black vines shoot up from the earth and weave their way around my forearms until I am latched in place. An uneasy murmur spreads among the onlookers, and Viv’s beautiful face contorts into that of a monster.

“Do not make a mockery of our family,” she hisses, digging the blade into my flesh and carving another straight line. “Go with grace.”

“I don’t want to go at all,” I cry. “I want to live!”

Gasps erupt from all over the garden.

I writhe against the vines as they bite into my flesh, searching the crowd for a face that doesn’t look disgusted with my cries, with what they see as selfishness.

There isn’t one.

Viv holds an embellished goblet underneath my lacerations until it overflows with blood. Turning back to her audience, she drinks and drinks and drinks. While I bleed and bleed and bleed. Tears track down my cheeks and into my ears, wetting the stone along with my blood.

Desperation hitches on every ragged breath. “Please, Vivvy, stop this.”

King Joal stands, and for the briefest of uncertain moments, relief washes through me.

It rapidly disappears, however, when he sneers.

“Silence the sacrifice before she angers Death!”

Any remaining hope flees from my body.

Vivvy slashes the bloodied blade against my dress and rips a strip of fabric from the hem.

“No, stop!” My foot connects with her abdomen as I squirm away from her. “Let me go! I’m your sister.”

She grunts from the impact and grips my jaw, hard enough to bruise as she shoves the fabric into my mouth, muffling any further pleading. “No, you’re my sacrifice.”

Everything blurs as a high-pitched ringing blares in my ears, rattles against my bones. A serene shade of black creeps along the outer edges of my vision. Is this what dying feels like? Ringing and darkness and… cold, answerless cries?

All my fight leaves my body in a rush, and my head falls slack. Movement by the garden gates catches my attention, but it must be a dream. Surely there is no way in this world or the next where the most beautiful vampire in all of Norica intrudes upon the rite with three other vampires in tow.

Have I already died, then?

Through tear-stricken vision, I plead to him, to this dream.

The three vampires stalking him begin snapping the necks of hunters and trackers as easily as if they were twigs. Bodies fall without time for them to cry out. I do not try to warn Father through my gag of the shadows creeping behind him. Let them claim him.

Before they do, madness ensues.

Suddenly, there is no longer one Quill, but several, a dozen, two dozen, three. They’re all strapped with bows and arrows, and I cannot track all of them as the hunters and trackers take up arms against the onslaught of vampires crashing the rite. Another Quill approaches the altar with long, powerful strides, blocking my vision of the decimation and all the other versions of him.