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.
