Lyssara's POV
The needle slips.
Blood wells up on my fingertip—the third time tonight—and drops onto the perfect white silk of my stepsister's death dress.
No. Not death dress. Sacrifice dress. That's what everyone calls it. Like calling it something pretty makes it less horrible.
I grab a cloth and scrub at the red stain, but it's already spreading like a tiny scream across the fabric. My hands shake as I work. Outside my attic window, the whole kingdom is throwing a party. Music blasts from the streets. People laugh and dance and drink. They're celebrating because tomorrow morning, my stepsister Celestine gets to die.
Lucky her.
I stick my bleeding finger in my mouth and keep sewing. The dress has to be perfect. Everything about tomorrow has to be perfect. That's what Father said when he shoved the fabric into my arms three days ago.
"Make it beautiful, Lyssara. Your sister deserves to look like an angel when she meets the Thorn King."
Your sister. He always says it like that, reminding me that Celestine is his real daughter. The precious one. The loved one. I'm just... well, I don't know what I am anymore.
The bastard daughter? The spare? The girl nobody wanted?
My fingers fly across the silk even though they're cramping. I've been sewing for six hours straight without a break. No food. No water. Just me and this stupid dress in this hot, dusty attic that smells like old mice.
A roar of laughter erupts from downstairs. The house is packed with guests—nobles and fancy people who came to honor Celestine before her "glorious sacrifice." They've been eating and drinking since noon. Someone sent up empty plates for me to wash. That's my dinner.
I bite down hard on my cheek to stop the tears. Crying won't help. It never does.
The worst part? I used to love my sister.
When Father married Lady Morganna ten years ago and brought Celestine into our lives, I was so happy. Finally, a sister! Someone to play with, to share secrets with, to not be alone with anymore. I was thirteen and desperate for a friend.
Celestine was twelve and beautiful. Golden hair like sunshine, blue eyes like the sky, and a smile that made everyone love her instantly.
For about two weeks, she was nice to me.
Then she figured out that I was nothing special. No money, no title, no real place in the family. Just the leftover daughter from Father's first marriage—the marriage to the woman they burned.
After that, Celestine made sure I knew exactly where I belonged. Below her. Always below her.
"Lyssara, fetch my shoes."
"Lyssara, fix my hair."
"Lyssara, you're standing in my light. Move."
And Father let it happen. He let her treat me like a servant because... because why? Because he's ashamed of me? Because I remind him of my mother? Because he wishes I'd died instead of her?
I don't know anymore. I stopped trying to figure it out.
But even after everything—after ten years of being invisible, of being nothing—I still don't want Celestine to die.
The Thorn King takes a bride every hundred years. She walks into his forest, lies down on his altar, and never comes back. Her death feeds the forest's magic, and that magic keeps the kingdom safe and healthy for another century.
It's been this way for a thousand years.
Every century, they choose the most beautiful, most perfect girl from the noblest family. They dress her in white, throw a huge party, and send her off to die like it's some kind of honor.
This century, they chose Celestine.
She's been preparing for this since she was seven years old. Special tutors, special training, special everything. The whole kingdom knows her name. They write songs about her. Little girls want to be like her.
"The Blessed Bride," they call her. "The Chosen One."
Tomorrow, she'll be "The Dead One," but nobody talks about that part.
A loud bang makes me jump. My door flies open, and Celestine storms in.
I quickly hide my bleeding finger. "The dress isn't done yet. I need another hour—"
"I don't care about the stupid dress!" Celestine's perfect face is red and blotchy from crying. Her golden hair is a mess. She looks... terrified.
My stomach drops. "What's wrong?"
"Everything!" She paces across my tiny attic, her fancy party dress swishing. "Tomorrow is wrong! This whole thing is wrong! I don't want to die, Lyssara!"
I set down the needle carefully. In ten years, Celestine has never once asked me for help. Never once treated me like a real sister. But right now, looking at her crying and scared, I see the twelve-year-old girl I wanted to be friends with all those years ago.
"Maybe... maybe Father can talk to them?" I offer quietly. "Explain that you're not ready?"
"Not ready?" Celestine laughs, but it sounds broken. "Nobody's ever ready to die! They just pretend it's an honor so they don't have to admit they're murdering girls!" She grabs my shoulders, her fingernails digging in. "Help me."
"Help you how?"
"I'm leaving." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Tonight. Right now. Marcus has horses waiting at the north gate. We're running away together."
Marcus. Her secret boyfriend. The merchant's son she's been sneaking around with for months. Father would be furious if he knew.
"Celestine, you can't—"
"I can, and I will!" She's gripping me so hard it hurts. "I just came to say goodbye. And to say... I'm sorry. For how I treated you. You deserved better."
The apology shocks me more than anything else tonight. But before I can respond, she's already moving toward the door.
"Wait!" I chase after her. "If you run, what happens to the ritual? The kingdom needs—"
"Let them figure it out!" Celestine spins around, and for a second, I see real hatred in her eyes. "I'm not dying for people who would forget my name in a week. I'm not dying for Father, who only loved me because I was useful. And I'm not dying for you."
The last part stings, even though I don't know why.
She runs down the attic stairs. I hear her footsteps fade away, then a window opening and closing downstairs.
She's really doing it. She's really leaving.
I stand frozen in my attic, the unfinished death dress in my hands, trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do.
If Celestine doesn't show up tomorrow, the ritual fails. If the ritual fails, everyone believes the forest will come alive and kill us all. The Thorn King will be angry. The kingdom will panic.
And Father...
Father will be destroyed.
Part of me—the angry, hurt part that remembers every slap, every cruel word, every time he chose Celestine over me—thinks: Good. Let him suffer.
But the other part, the part that still remembers being a little girl who loved her father before everything went wrong, wants to run downstairs and tell him. Warn him. Fix this somehow.
I'm still deciding when I hear heavy footsteps on the attic stairs.
Father appears in the doorway. His face is pale. His hands are shaking.
"Where is she?" he demands.
My mouth goes dry. "I... I don't—"
"WHERE IS CELESTINE?" He crosses the room in three steps and grabs my arm hard enough to bruise. "The guards saw her climbing out a window. She's gone, isn't she? She ran away!"
I can't speak. Can't breathe.
Father's fingers dig deeper into my arm. His eyes are wild, desperate. Behind him, I see Lady Morganna appear at the top of the stairs, her face twisted with panic.
"The ceremony is at dawn," Father says, his voice shaking. "We have six hours. Six hours to find a replacement, or everything falls apart. My reputation, my position, everything I've built—"
He stops talking. His eyes focus on me with a look that makes my blood turn to ice.
"No," I whisper, backing away. "Father, no—"
"You'll take her place."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
"I'm not the chosen bride!" My voice comes out high and scared. "The ritual requires—"
"The ritual requires a daughter from this house," Father cuts me off. His grip on my arm tightens. "You'll wear the dress. You'll walk into that forest. You'll save this family's honor."
"Please—" I try to pull away, but he's too strong. "Please don't make me—"
"You owe me this." His voice turns cold. "I raised you. I kept you safe after your mother died. It's time you were useful for once."
After your mother died. Not "after your mother was burned for being a witch." Not "after I stood by and let them kill her because I was too much of a coward to defend her."
Just "died." Like it was natural. Like it wasn't his fault.
Something breaks inside me. Ten years of swallowing my anger, of making myself small, of trying to earn love from a man who never had any to give—it all shatters.
"No," I say firmly. "I won't do it. Find someone else."
Father's hand flies out and hits me across the face. The slap echoes in the small attic. My cheek burns. Lady Morganna gasps but doesn't move to help me.
"You ungrateful little witch," Father hisses. "You'll do as you're told, or I'll drag you to that forest in chains."
Through my ringing ears and watering eyes, I hear footsteps. Heavy boots on the stairs. Guards appear behind Father—three of them in their kingdom uniforms.
"Chain her," Father orders. "Lock her in the cellar until dawn. We'll dress her and deliver her to the forest whether she cooperates or not."
The guards move toward me. I try to run, but there's nowhere to go. My tiny attic has one door, one window too small to climb through.
They grab my arms. Cold metal clicks around my wrists.
"Father, please!" I'm crying now, begging. "Please don't do this! I'm your daughter!"
He turns away. "You're nothing," he says quietly. "You've always been nothing. At least this way, you'll finally be worth something."
The guards drag me toward the stairs. I twist and fight, but it's useless.
As they pull me past the window, I see the dawn starting to lighten the sky. It's almost morning.
In six hours, I'll be standing at the edge of the Thornwood forest.
In seven hours, I'll be dead.
The cellar door slams shut above me. Darkness swallows everything. I collapse on the cold stone floor, chains rattling, and finally let myself scream.
But screaming doesn't help. Nobody's coming to save me.
Nobody ever does.