The ceremonial robes are white. So white they almost shimmer, untouched by thread or dirt, weightless and whisper-soft. They drape around me like snowfall, pooling slightly at my bare feet, and tied at the waist with a ribbon the color of ash.

  I don't move. I barely breathe as two attendants fasten the final clasp at my throat—tiny, glinting, shaped like a crescent moon. It settles against my skin like a brand.

  My hands tremble, but I bury them in the folds of my sleeves. Not fear. Not weakness. Fury. Cold and steady. The kind that simmers low, waiting. The kind that doesn't scream or thrash—but burns.

  They are killing me in white.

  No chains. No cells. Just a ceremony.

  The journey through the palace is too quiet. The sound of my footsteps against polished marble echoes down the halls, but no one speaks. No one meets my gaze.

  Sunlight slants through the tall windows, catching on the silver embroidery across my shoulders. The halls stretch high, impossibly high, their walls carved with stories of old kings and older wars. I walk through history, yet I am meant to be its sacrifice.

  When the grand doors to the throne room open, my breath stutters.

  This time, I am not running from guards and I can take it all in.

  Vaulted ceilings soar overhead, each stone carved in spiraling patterns. Stained-glass windows rise like towers, their panes painted in crimson, sapphire, and gold. Light streams through them, fractured and brilliant, cascading across the marble floor in a film of color.

  But none of it touches the throne.

  It sits shrouded in shadow.

  The king watches me from its heights, draped in black and crimson, that jagged crown resting atop his head. Around him, the high council stands in their ceremonial robes, unmoving. Violet eyes sharp. Unfeeling. Hungry.

  And Rael, ever the guard, stands beside the throne, his face a stoic mask.

  An attendant guides me forward, toward a silver basin embedded into the floor beneath the tallest arch of stained glass. Foreign runes circle the rim, glowing faintly.

  A noble in ash-colored robes steps forward, his voice cutting the silence.

  "Selene of Elyndria. You come to offer what was promised."

  I nod once. Mechanical. Dead inside.

  He unrolls a parchment scroll, the ink red as blood, and begins to read. The words twist in the air, heavy with old magic. They scrape at my ears.

  "A soul for peace. A soul for the wish granted. The offering is made whole through blood."

  I glance at Edros.

  He says nothing.

  He just holds out his hand. Palm up. Expectant. Like I am something to be collected.

  There are no vows.

  No illusion of love.

  This is not a marriage.

  This is a transaction.

  The noble dips a blade in silver ink and draws it across my palm. I flinch but make no sound. Blood wells up instantly, mingling with the ink.

  When it splatters down onto the runes, they ignite. A dull golden glow pulses through the stone. The air shifts.

  "By the will of two kingdoms," the noble intones, "and by the price agreed--this soul shall be payment. May it seal the pact and extend the reign."

  My breath catches.

  Wind tears through the room--but there is no wind--just the feeling of something being pulled from me.

  I stagger.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  My knees give out, but the runes hold me upright. Magic coils around my limbs, tight as rope.

  My lungs hollow out. My chest burns. My voice--

  Stop!

  It doesn't come. My lips don't move. No sound escapes.

  The pull deepens. Beyond breath. Beyond blood.

  I scream inside myself.

  The noble doesn't falter. The king doesn't blink.

  "Her soul for the wish fulfilled. Her essence for the bond."

  Light bursts. The gold turns to amber. The pain starts--raw, excruciating. Not flesh. Not bone.

  Worse.

  It feels like being unmade.

  Thread by thread.

  I scream, but only in my mind as memories spring free.

  My mother, laughing in the garden, sunlight in her hair.

  My father, holding me tight the day I left.

  My brother's terrible jokes. His lopsided grin.

  Rael's smile. His snide remarks.

  Gone.

  Slipping from me like feathers in the wind.

  Tears spill down my cheeks.

  I want to yell. To fight. To stop this.

  But the magic constricts, eating me whole.

  No.

  The word is fire in my chest. An ember in the dark.

  I am not a price.

  I am not an offering.

  I am not soul to be traded.

  I reach deep--past the pain, past the unraveling--and drag my voice back from the void.

  My lips move.

  "I invoke the Rite of Challenge."

  The room shatters, runes glowing white-hot before dying like a severed breath.

  Magic snaps, the pull stops, and I collapse to the floor, gasping, sobbing, blood coating my palm.

  Every eye turns to me as Edros let's out an exasperated laugh. "You can't be serious, you--"

  "The law states any of noble blood may invoke the rite." I glare up at him. "Does my title not constitute nobility?"

  The council stares at me, mortified.

  Breathless, bloodied, broken, I push myself up. "I am not my mother's burden." I snarl. "I am not her debt to pay." I stagger to my feet. "I challenge you not for your crown, not for power." I lift my head, looking straight at the king. "I challenge you for my freedom."

  The king grins. "Very well," he says, voice smooth as oil.

  The noble beside him pales. "My king, perhaps this is—"

  "Silence," the king hisses. Then to the guards: "Bring her a blade of silver."

  The room is deathly quiet. Someone hurries away, returns moments later with a slim blade glinting like moonlight. They offer it to me on a velvet cloth.

  I wrap my fingers around the hilt. My hand shakes, my blood smearing across the polished silver.

  Edros takes no weapon of his own. "You may make the first move, princess."

  He even bows. Mocking.

  I don't hesitate.

  I lunge—just as I'd seen Rael do, quick and rough in the forest clearing.

  But the king is gone before I reach him.

  My momentum carries me forward, off balance.

  He laughs. "That was adorable. Try again."

  I whirl, strike low. He sidesteps, graceful as shadow.

  "Did no one teach you to hold a blade?" he says, yawning.

  I grit my teeth and swing again--higher, wild, desperate.

  He steps back, shaking his head like a disappointed tutor. "All this fire and no form. You're flailing."

  Another strike--he doesn't even dodge this time. He just lifts his hand and knocks my wrist aside like swatting a fly.

  Pain flashes up my arm.

  He leans in. "Is this what Rael fell for?"

  I snarl and try to stab him again.

  He lets me. Or so I think.

  The blade cuts nothing but air.

  I move past him.

  Claws rake down my back and I scream, falling to my knees, vision blurring.

  His voice purrs behind me. "There's the sound I was waiting for."

  Laughter ripples through the council, cold and cruel.

  I press my palm to the floor, teeth clenched against the pain.

  He's circling now. Playing with me.

  "You should have stayed silent, princess," he murmurs.

  He kneels beside me, tilting my chin up with one clawed finger. "You could have died quietly. But now..."

  I surge up again, slashing wildly.

  He knocks the attack aside—but not before I spin and catch him with the tip of the blade, slicing just beneath his eye.

  A thin line of blood beads on his cheek.

  He stills.

  The laughter dies from his lips.

  A silence falls so heavy I can hear my own heartbeat, pounding against my ribs.

  The king slowly touches his cheek, smears the blood between his fingers. When he looks at me again, the amusement is gone.

  "Now I'll make it hurt." he says.

  Then he moves.

  Faster than anything I can track.

  One moment I'm raising the blade—next, his hand is around my throat, lifting me from the ground like I weigh nothing.

  I choke, legs kicking. The blade slips from my fingers.

  He holds me mid-air, claws digging into my neck, just shy of piercing.

  The world tilts. Colors blur. My lungs burn.

  "You think you're different," he says, voice low and ice-cold. "But you're just like the rest. Another fool sent to die for a wish that means nothing in this land."

  He leans in.

  "I'll carve your heart out slow, and send it back as a gift."

  He rears his claws back—ready to strike.

  A blur, a shadow—a force of wind and fury.

  Rael.

  He slams into the king like a storm, sending us crashing to the floor, the impact rattling my bones.

  Air floods my lungs, the pain in my throat and back screaming--but I'm alive.

  The king growls, already pushing up.

  But Rael is standing between us now, his entire body shuddering like a beast about to break its cage.

  "I invoke the Rite of Challenge," Rael says, panting.

  For a heartbeat, there's nothing but silence—then a flicker of surprise crosses Edros's face. Real surprise.

  "Brother," The king's lips curl. "After everything, you would stand against me?"

  Rael doesn't flinch. His stance is coiled steel, his voice calm but seething.

  "She challenged you by right of survival," he says. "But I challenge you now—by right of blood."

  Gasps ripple through the court like a wave breaking.

  "No," the king snarls, canines flashing. "You don't know what you're doing."

  "I do." Rael's voice softens just enough to chill the air. "I'm choosing her."

  The room explodes into chaos—nobles shouting, guards rushing to the edges, uncertain whether to interfere.

  But I don't see them. Don't hear them.

  All I see is Rael.

  Standing between me and death.

  And the fire in his eyes that says he'll rip the world apart to keep me breathing.