"It's obsessive." She pours two cups of whatever's in the bottle. "Drink. If you're walking to your death tonight, at least do it with decent food in your belly."
I take the cup and drink. It burns all the way down, then blooms into warmth in my chest. "Fuck. That's awful."
"I know." Yaern grins, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "That's why it's perfect."
We eat in silence for a while. The food tastes like ash in my mouth, but I force it down because she made it for me, because this is our last normal meal together.
When we're done, she sets down her cup and looks at me with that expression I know too well. The one that means she's about to say something I won't want to hear.
"Tell me your plan so we can go over it," she says.
"Why bother?"
"Kess." That look. The one that says she knows me too well to believe my deflection. "You promised not to give up, so don't give up. How are you going to try to kill him?"
I lean back in my chair. "When they chain me to the altar, my wrists will be bound but my hands stay free—I checked the old descriptions. The manacles go on the wrists, arms spread. When he shifts to human form and gets close, I'll have one chance to strike."
She nods slowly. "I'm working on it. Something small. Concealable." A pause. "You'll have it tonight before you leave."
Relief floods through me. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me for helping you die." Her voice cracks. "Thank me if you survive."
"Yaern—"
"I know. I know you think you're not coming back." She grabs my hand across the table. "But you're wrong about something. You think fighting means dying faster. But maybe—maybe for you, it means living longer."
"What are you talking about?"
"The stories we grew up hearing. The ones about the tributes." She leans forward, intense. "You know what they all had in common? The ones who died fastest?"
I shake my head.
"They were all docile omegas. Soft. Submissive. The kind whose scent is supposed to calm alpha rage." She squeezes my hand. "You're not that kind of omega. You never have been. Your scent is wrong. Your heat is wrong. Everything about you is different from what they expect."
"Your point?"
"My point is maybe you're not wrong. Maybe you're exactly what an omega needs to be to survive him. Maybe the reason all those gentle omegas died is because they weren't what his beast actually needs."
I want to argue. Want to tell her that hope is dangerous, that she's setting herself up for grief.
But something in her words catches. Holds.
The omegas who died all were the type that smelled like honey and rain, whose heats made them pliant and desperate to please.
I smell like smoke and blood and burning things.
My heats make me violent.
What if she's right? What if I'm not broken—just different?
"I still have to try to kill him," I say quietly. "Even if I could survive his claiming, he's still a monster who demands tributes. Who's killed forty-seven omegas. That has to stop."
"I know." Yaern stands and moves around the table to hug me. "I just... I needed you to know that I think you can survive this. Even if you don't believe it yourself."
I let myself be held. Let myself have this moment of comfort before I walk into the dark.
"I'm scared," I admit. The words taste strange in my mouth. I'm not used to admitting fear.
