"Good." She pulls back to look at me. "Fear will keep you sharp. Just don't let it make you hesitate when the moment comes."
"I won't."
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If you see a chance to live—even the smallest opening—promise you'll take it. Promise you won't just throw your life away. Even if running means that you don't kill him, just do it, just run as soon as you get the chance."
I want to promise. Want to give her that comfort.
But I've never been good at lying to Yaern.
"I'll do what I can," I say instead. "That's the best I can offer."
She knows it's not a promise. But she nods anyway, accepting what I can give.
We sit together in the fading light, not talking, just being present with each other. She tells me stories about the village, gossip I'll never hear the ending of. I let the words wash over me, memorizing the sound of her voice.
When she finally stands to leave, she pulls something from her pocket.
A cord bracelet. Simple, woven from red thread.
"I made this for you," she says. "For protection. It probably won't work, but?—"
"I'll wear it." I tie it around my wrist. "Thank you."
"I have to finish working on your knife," she says. "I'll have it ready by tonight. Before the elders come for you."
I nod. It feels too soon. Too soon to say goodbye, knowing that just this morning we had no idea it would end this way.
She hugs me one more time—fierce and desperate—then slips out into the bright afternoon light.
I'm alone.
I should do... something with the rest of my time. In just a few hours I'll be chained to an altar in the wounds, and my death with be brutal and my fight probably pointless.
Instead I sit by the window and stare out towards the Black Forest. Somewhere out there, in his mountain fortress, the Beast King waits. Does he know a tribute is coming? Does he care which omega they send?
Does he feel anything at all when they die?
I touch the cord around my wrist. Yaern's protection. Her hope.
I can't afford hope. Can't believe in my own survival.
All I've ever had to count on is rage.
I close my eyes and feed the anger—every slight, every fear, every time the village looked at me like I was something dangerous that needed to be contained. My aunt's blood-soaked dress. Phern's terrified face. The forty-seven omegas who will never be remembered again.
All of it.
All of them.
I'll carry their ghosts with me tonight. Let their deaths fuel my strike.
Against the back of my eyelids, I imagine a world of blood and fire and a throat opening under my hands.
May the best beast win.
