Two down. Three to go.
The third family is called, and Phern's mother has to be prompted twice before she steps forward. Phern follows like a ghost, all big eyes and trembling chin.
Her mother reaches into the bag.
Time seems to slow.
The stone comes out.
Marked.
For a second, no one moves. No one breathes.
Then Phern's mother screams.
It's not loud—more like something being torn out of her throat. Raw and broken and utterly helpless. She drops the stoneand it clatters on the platform, and Phern just stands there, frozen, tears streaming down her face in silence.
The elders start the formal words: "By the laws of the treaty and the grace of the dragon lord?—"
"Wait."
My voice cuts through the square like a blade.
Everyone turns to look at me. I can feel their eyes, dozens of them, all landing on me at once. I'm sure they're wondering the same thing I am: what the hell am I doing, and why the fuck am I doing it?
I step forward, ignoring Yaern's sharp intake of breath behind me.
"I volunteer," I say clearly, in a voice that doesn't shake, though my insides feel like molten lava. "To take her place."
The silence is absolute.
Then everyone is talking at once—a surge of shocked voices, questions, confusion. Elder Torim's face goes hard as stone.
"That's not how the selection works," he says.
"The treaty says one omega." I'm making this up as I go, but it sounds right. "It doesn't specify which omega. Just that one must be sent every ten years."
I can see him calculating. The other elders too, heads together, whispering urgently.
"You're not—" Torim stops himself, but I know what he was going to say. You're not a proper omega.
"I'm what the Beast King asked for," I say, letting iron creep into my voice. "An omega. Or are you saying the treaty is particular about what kind?"
Checkmate.
I can see it on his face—the moment he realizes I've given him an out. They get rid of me, the omega who scares them, who blacks out during heat and wakes up covered in blood. They save sweet, gentle Phern who actually fits their idea of whatan omega should be. And they can tell the Beast King that an omega volunteered, which is probably even better than sending an unwilling tribute.
Everyone wins.
Except me, of course. But that was never really in question.
The elders confer in whispers. It doesn't take long.
"Very well," Torim announces, and he can't quite hide the relief in his voice. "The tribute will be Kess."
The way he says my name—like something distasteful he has to get out of his mouth quickly. Like he's glad to be rid of me.
Phern tears herself away from her mother and runs to me, throwing her thin arms around my waist and sobbing thank-yous into my dress. I pat her head awkwardly because I've never been good at this—comfort, softness, emotions. Those aren't roles I know how to play.
