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.
The forest grows darker, the trees older, their branches weaving together overhead. Strange sounds echo in the distance—animal calls that don't sound quite right. Howls and cries, growls and snarls.
This is the deep forest. Where feral things hunt.
