When dawn seeped pale through the warped glass, Isolda sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the window. The scratch was still there, faint but undeniable, a jagged scar across the pane. No storm had left it. No hand had reached so high in the night. Only the thorn.
She pressed her palm flat against the glass, testing its solidity. Cold. Solid. Yet her skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arm rising as if something pressed back from the other side, invisible but present. She snatched her hand away, heart hammering, and for a moment could not bring herself to draw another breath.
Her father's groan belowstairs broke the spell, dragging her back into the heaviness of the house. The sour reek of ale rose even to her little room, proof of his unbroken vigil with the bottle. She swallowed the knot in her throat, stood, and wrapped her shawl tighter before forcing herself down the steps.
The cups were where he had left them, scattered like bones across the table. Some tipped, puddles of stale drink soaking into the wood. A fly buzzed lazily at the rim of one. She gathered them with deliberate care, stacking them neatly, each clink against the next a small act of defiance, a way of saying I will not let this house rot me too. At the basin, she rinsed them in cold water that smelled faintly of iron, scrubbing until her fingers stung, until the stink clung stubbornly to her hands.
Outside, the pigs squealed from their pen, impatient and demanding, their snouts rooting hard enough at the fence to make the boards rattle. The hens clucked, restless in their cramped coop, until she scattered the grain with a sharp shake of her wrist. Life went on—mud, feathers, grunting beasts—just as it had every morning before.
And yet… it was different. Every sound was sharper this morning, louder, as though the world itself had been awake with her in the night, listening to the thorn scratch across her glass.
When she latched the pen, she caught herself glancing toward the forest. The Thorn Forest hunched black against the paling sky, its jagged crown seeming nearer than it had yesterday. She thought of the thorn's deliberate line dragging across the pane, like a hand writing her name in silence.
The pigs squealed again, and she tore her gaze away. "Not me," she muttered under her breath, though the words rang hollow.
By the time she reached the market square, the gossip had already thickened in the air, heavier than smoke. The square filled slow and steady—carts creaking under loads of grain, wheels crunching against uneven stones, voices rising in fragments over the bleating of goats and the hiss of kindling being coaxed into flame.
Isolda threaded through the bustle with her shawl drawn close, basket snug against her hip. She had come only for eggs, maybe flour if the miller's wife was in a generous mood, but the air itself carried too much weight. The market smelled of blood from the butcher's stall, of damp wool, of sour cider sloshed from jugs. Beneath all of it, louder than smell or sound, was talk.
"They say the thorns are growing deeper this year."
"Deeper? My husband swears he saw them sprouting along the riverbank."
"Nonsense. They can't cross running water."
"Can't they? It's been ninety-nine years…"
Ninety-nine years. Always the number, whispered like an omen. The century-mark was closing in, and everyone was counting.
Isolda kept her head down, but she could not close her ears. The words drifted toward her as surely as smoke drifts toward fire.
At the butcher's stall, Mistress Brenna slammed her cleaver into a slab of pork with a wet smack, blood flecking the block. She wiped her hands slow on her apron, eyes flicking sideways to fix on Isolda. Her voice carried louder than it needed to, pitched for the crowd.
"Some are born to it," she said. "Some carry the mark from the cradle. Best the offering comes from among them, eh?"
A murmur rippled outward, low and eager, a hive of agreement buzzing just under the skin of the morning.
Isolda's grip tightened on her basket until the wicker dug into her palm. Heat rose up her throat, but she forced a sharp laugh, cold and cutting enough to bite.
"And you've appointed yourself judge of marks, Mistress? Careful, or they'll send you instead."
The crowd gave a nervous titter, brittle as cracking twigs. But Brenna only smirked, lips pale and thin, as though she had tasted victory.
"No one will send me," she said smoothly. "Everyone knows it's your blood the forest wants."
The words settled heavy over the square, heavier than smoke, heavier even than the gray morning itself. No one contradicted her.
Isolda turned on her heel, shawl snapping against her back, and strode away before they could see the heat blooming under her skin, before they could see how close her nails were to breaking her own flesh.
The road out of the square curved past the old schoolhouse. Its shutters hung crooked, chalk dust still clung stubbornly to the sill though no lessons had been taught there in months. A handful of children played in the yard, their voices high and shrill, brittle with that cruel glee that belonged only to the very young.
At first, the game seemed harmless: one boy hunched, arms spread like claws, growling as he chased the others in wide circles. Their laughter shrieked into the air as they scattered, until one girl—hair loose, cheeks flushed—stumbled forward with exaggerated drama.
"I'm the bride," she announced in a wobbling voice, clutching her hands before her chest. She dragged her feet through the dust, head bent, feigning tears. "I go to the thorns. I go to the King."
The beast-boy pounced, seizing her wrist and tugging her backward as she squealed. The other children clapped and chanted in a circle around them:
"Into the forest! Into the forest!"
Isolda stopped cold. Her breath hitched, caught sharp in her throat.
The girl broke free and spun in a triumphant circle, her face lit with the wicked delight of being watched. She caught sight of Isolda over the fence—her eyes widened, gleaming with a dangerous thrill—and she pointed, finger stabbing the air like a dagger.
"Not me," the girl cried. "Her. It's already her turn."
The laughter that erupted was nervous, brittle. The beast-boy dropped character, staring at the dirt with sudden shame, as though even in play he knew the game had turned sour.
Isolda's pulse thundered in her ears. For a moment she thought she might leap the fence, seize the girl by her shoulders, shake the cruelty out of her. But the children were watching—wide-eyed, expectant, waiting to see what the cursed one would do.
So she did nothing. She turned away, every movement deliberate, cold as ice. She walked until the laughter behind her thinned, until it became only a shadow of sound drifting at her back.
But the echo clung. The words tangled in her shawl, snagged in her hair, burrowed into her chest and would not let go.
It's already her turn.