—SCRATCHED ON LABYRINTH STONE, AUTHOR UNKNOWN
“Florienne?” Demaya gasps, clutching my sleeve. “What are you doing?”
“Remember I said there’s a time and a place for defiance? Now is the time.”
I meet the High Priestess’s wide-eyed stare, memories of Drayven’s blood in the snow steeling my resolve.
“I volunteer as this year’s bride,” I repeat.
Jaws drop. Silence stretches until the pounding of my heart against my ribcage overshadows everything else. Other Vespers inch away from me as if the madness might be catching. When the High Priestess’s eyes snap to somewhere behind me and quickly lower in submission, I realize it’s not my heartbeat.
Someone is clapping.
“Bravo,” he purrs. “Your eagerness should be applauded.”
I whirl to face the usually locked door, panic rising. Baron Bartholomew Blackthorn’s massive frame crowds the doorway. He is one in a long line of warmongering nobles circling the empty throne like vultures spotting carrion. Roseate patches bloom on his cheeks, not from our kingdom’s bitter winds but from glutting himself on imported delicacies while children starve in the streets.
Over my years in the Pen, I’ve marked his rise in influence through his wardrobe—from simple wool to today’s midnight velvet trimmed with silver fox fur, each upgrade purchased with blood money and broken bodies. His short, wiry black hair is combed to one side, emphasizing his knife-blade nose and the scar I gave him when he tried to “sample the merchandise” eight years ago.
My punishment, a week of learning to whisper erotic praises and declarations of devotion to earn my open scroll badge. Instead, I told him the truth. No one would ever truly love him. This was the best he would get. He lifted my robes and smacked my bare bottom until welts rose.
My instincts scream to cringe, to cover myself, to run—but I offer nothing. Running only excites predators.
“Baron Blackthorn,” the priestess gasps, her voice pitched high. “It’s not what it looks like.”
Something dark flickers in his cold eyes as he assesses my body, marking the three new—and final—badges in the feminine mysteries I’ve mastered since his last visit. His gaze strips me bare, lingering on places that make my skin crawl. When he finishes, he locks eyes with me. “And what does it look like, High Priestess?”
Robes rustle behind me. Feet shuffle. Someone whimpers.
“Ah… it looks like she, um, defies Kasaros’s will.” Her throat catches. “But I assure you that is not the case. Only the God of Chaos can choose a bride from the Pen.”
“Hm.” The Baron strokes his jaw, a gesture I’ve seen precede violence too many times. “And how is the chosen one revealed?”
Gasps ripple behind me. The mysteries of the Pen are our only protection—secrets bought with pain and sealed with tears. No outsider knows them, especially not men. The Baron breaks eye contact with me to glare at the priestess, raising one brow. “Well?”
“Um. Well, it’s just… well, it’s?—”
“Don’t dilly-dally, you old crone. Time wastes.” His fingers twitch toward the knife at his belt—the same blade that carved his initials into three previous brides who “disappeared” after his visits.
“The God leaves his mark on Vesper brides.” The priestess pulls Lenora’s hair and robe aside, revealing delicate décolletage. She waves her hand over the skin, and a shimmering golden rosebud appears, its stem shadowed by her cleavage. “So you see, Vesper Florienne cannot volunteer for the Hunt. She must be chosen and marked by Kasaros.”
“How did you do that?” he snaps. “How did you make it appear?”
“Only a blessed priestess can see the mark before the bride enters the Labyrinth. Once there, all hunters can see it. This way, the bride is protected before she enters and after a hunter fertilizes her womb, for the rose will bloom, proving his claim.”
Just like that, my hope is crushed. I wasn’t aware of the mark—I’ve never heard of brides from other worlds with it, either—no wonder no badges are inked across the flesh of a Vesper’s sternum. Frowning, I survey the others and find echoes of my surprise. None of us knew.
The Baron strolls into the room, and guards close the doors behind him. The sound reminds me of finger bones breaking.
It’s one thing for nobility to bribe their way into Vesper lessons, but it is unheard of to walk in here so brazenly. Did he pay off the guards?
Collective fear trembles through the air as he inspects our sacred items. His cruel eyes assess each one—a crystal vial of blessing oil that catches rainbows, pressed rose petals preserved for powder, golden combs tarnished with tears, strips of silk waiting to bind future brides. He handles each with calculated indifference before moving to the next, building tension with every casual violation of our treasures.
When he arrives at the thorny tiara set aside for my coronation and Bride Hunt, he pauses, a finger hovering over a sharp spike. A breath later, he proceeds to the beautification station, where Lenora sits frozen, tears tracing down her painted face. “And what happens if, oh, I don’t know…” He picks up the golden scissors, the light glinting off their razor edge. “Something happened to the chosen bride before the Hunt begins?”
“Like what?” The High Priestess’s brows pinch as she steps between him and Lenora—too late.
“Like this.” The Baron circles the priestess and thrusts his scissors into Lenora’s chest, piercing the golden rosebud.
