The forest didn't whisper her name.
It screamed it.
Mary Cynthia stood at the edge of the offering path, where the soil turned black and the trees leaned too far in. Behind her, the village bell tolled once. A warning. A goodbye.
She didn't look back.
Her red dress the "sacrifice's robe," sewn from scraps and wine-stained silk clung to her skin with sweat and nerves. Her hands were tied in front of her with soft ceremonial cloth, easily undone. A mockery of chains.
The Elders believed the Thorn King didn't like fear.
Mary Cyn believed the Thorn King didn't give a damn what they liked.
She took a step. Then another. The air thickened around her like honey laced with rot. The forest swallowed the sound of her breath.
It wasn't bravery that brought her here.
It was the deal.
"Spare my sister," she'd whispered into the altar bowl, weeks ago. "Take me instead."
No one had heard her but the gods.
And now maybe the monster they claimed still waited in the ruins beyond.
The path twisted like it wanted to lose her, but she kept moving. Hours passed. Or maybe it was just fear bending time.
Then, the gate appeared.
Massive. Iron. Wrapped in thorns thick as her wrist, some still wet with blood from past brides.
It stood crookedly between two ancient trees, and behind it: mist. Darkness. A shape that looked like a castle carved from bones and stone.
Her mouth went dry.
A hum began to build in her ears not a sound, but a pull, low and deep. Something on the other side of the gate wanted her.
She stepped forward.
The thorns didn't move. They curled inward. Opened like a flower. Welcoming.
She froze.
Then a voice low, calm, and cold echoed from within the mist.
"You came willingly."
She jolted.
A shadow moved behind the fog. Slow. Tall. Cloaked in black so thick it looked like smoke. A crown of thorns glinted in the moonlight, fused to a face half-hidden in shadow.
The Thorn King.
"You're not her," he said.
Mary Cyn swallowed. "No. I'm not."
He didn't blink. Didn't breathe.
"But you wear her mark."
He stepped closer. She didn't move. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs. The air turned hotter, denser, charged with a pressure she couldn't name.
Then he reached out — gloved fingers grazing her collarbone — and pulled down the edge of her dress slightly, exposing the faded sigil burned into her skin since birth.
A curved line. A broken circle. A symbol no one could explain.
"You are mine," he murmured.
"I'm not," she snapped
A slow smile curved his lips, wicked and cruel.
"You will be."
He turned and walked through the gates without looking back.
She stood frozen, breath shaking, skin burning where he touched her.
Then like a curse her legs moved on their own, following him into the mist.