Lyssara's POV
Father's hand closes around my throat before I can scream.
"You'll take her place," he hisses, dragging me away from Celestine's empty bedroom. His fingers dig into my skin hard enough to bruise. "You'll walk into that forest and die like you were always meant to."
"I'm not—" I claw at his hand, gasping for air. "I'm not the chosen bride!"
He throws me against the hallway wall. My head cracks against the stone, and stars explode behind my eyes. Before I can move, his hand connects with my face—a sharp slap that splits my lip open.
"The forest doesn't care which daughter dies," he snarls, grabbing my hair and yanking my head back. Blood drips down my chin. "Get dressed."
"Father, please—" I taste copper and salt. "You can't do this. The ritual requires the chosen bride. Celestine was blessed by the priests, selected at birth—"
"Celestine is gone!" His roar echoes through the empty halls. Everyone else is still outside searching for her. It's just us. Just him and his dirty secret daughter he's always wanted to erase. "And you? You're the perfect replacement. Same house. Same bloodline. Same age. The only difference is that you are worthless."
The words should hurt. They've hurt for twenty-three years. But right now, all I feel is cold, hard terror.
"I won't do it." My voice shakes but doesn't break. "I won't die for your reputation—"
His fist crashes into my stomach. I double over, retching, unable to breathe. He drags me down the stairs by my hair while I struggle and kick and beg.
In the main hall, six guards wait. Not the regular soldiers—these are Father's personal men, the ones who look away when he hits me, who've held me down before when he wanted to "discipline" his shameful daughter.
"Chain her," Father commands, shoving me forward.
I try to run. My bare feet slip on marble, and I make it three steps before rough hands grab me. They force my arms behind my back. Heavy iron chains click around my wrists, the metal biting into my skin. I thrash and fight, but there are too many of them.
"Stop!" I scream. "This is murder! You're sending me to die—"
"You're volunteering." Father's cold smile makes my blood freeze. "You're my brave, selfless daughter who couldn't bear to see the kingdom suffer because of Celestine's cowardice. You begged me to let you take her place."
"That's a lie!"
"Who will they believe?" He leans close, his breath hot on my face. "A respected lord? Or a bastard girl with her mother's cursed magic running through her veins?"
My heart stops. He knows. Of course he knows. He's always known.
"Yes, I know about your filthy power," he whispers. "I've known since you were seven years old and made dead flowers bloom at your mother's execution. I should have turned you in then. Should have let them burn you alongside her. But I was weak. I thought I could hide you, suppress your magic, make you small and invisible enough that no one would ever suspect."
Tears blur my vision. "You let them burn Mother—"
"She deserved it. And so do you." He straightens, his voice rising to address the guards. "But first, you'll serve the kingdom one final time. You'll walk into that forest and feed it your cursed blood. Maybe then you'll finally be useful for something."
Lady Morganna appears at the top of the stairs, her face twisted with ugly satisfaction. "Is it done?"
"Almost." Father signals the guards. "Take her to the ceremonial chambers. Dress her. Make her presentable. We have one hour before dawn."
They drag me through the house while I fight every step. I bite, I kick, I scream until my throat is raw. Nothing helps. The chains suppress my magic—I can feel the cold iron pressing down on my power, suffocating it.
In Celestine's dressing room, two maids wait with the white ceremonial gown. My death dress. The one I sewed with my own bleeding fingers.
The guards hold me while the maids strip off my simple clothes. I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter. They pull the white dress over my head—it fits perfectly because I made it for someone my size, even though Celestine claimed it as hers.
"Please," I whisper to the older maid, a woman I've known since childhood. "Please help me. Don't let them do this."
She won't meet my eyes. "I'm sorry, child. But better you than my granddaughter. Better anyone than my family."
They brush my hair until it shines. Paint my face with ceremonial colors. Drape a veil over my head. When they're finished, I look like a bride from a storybook.
A dead bride.
Father returns with more people—nobles, priests, guards. So many witnesses to the lie he's about to tell.
"People of the court," he announces, his voice breaking with fake emotion. "My daughter Lyssara has volunteered to take her sister's place. She couldn't bear to see the kingdom suffer because of Celestine's... moment of weakness. She begs to be allowed this honor."
A priest steps forward, frowning. "But Lord Davian, the chosen bride was blessed, prepared since birth. The ritual requires—"
"The ritual requires a bride from my bloodline," Father interrupts smoothly. "Lyssara shares that blood. She is pure, willing, and brave. The forest will accept her sacrifice."
I try to speak, to scream the truth, but Father's guard clamps a hand over my mouth. The priest looks uncertain, but Lady Morganna produces a scroll—probably forged—that claims the ritual only requires "a daughter of the house of Ashenmere."
The priest reads it and nods slowly. "If she volunteers willingly..."
"Tell them," Father orders, and the guard removes his hand.
Every eye turns to me. Nobles. Priests. Guards. All of them wanting to believe the lie because it's easier than admitting the chosen bride was a coward. Easier than canceling the ceremony. Easier than facing whatever happens when the covenant breaks.
I could tell the truth. Could scream that I'm being murdered, that Father is a liar, that this whole ceremony is built on blood and lies.
But then Father's next words freeze the air in my lungs.
"If Lyssara refuses," he says quietly, looking at me with empty eyes, "I'll be forced to reveal the truth about her. About the forbidden magic she inherited from her heretic mother. About the illegal healing she's been performing in the Border villages." His smile is poison. "They'll burn her and everyone she ever helped. Starting with her little friend Mirin and that dying boy she saved last night."
My world tilts. He knows. He knows about Thomas, about all of them.
"So, daughter." Father's voice is silk over steel. "Will you volunteer?"
I look at his face—the man who was supposed to protect me. The man who let them burn Mother. The man who's about to feed me to the forest to save his reputation.
Then I think of Thomas's mother weeping with gratitude. Of Mirin's daughter, healthy because I healed her fever. Of the dozens of people in the Border villages who live because I saved them.
People Father would burn without a second thought.
"Yes." The word tastes like poison. "I volunteer."
The lie spreads through the crowd like wildfire. Father is so brave, so gracious to let his daughter sacrifice herself. I'm so noble, so selfless to save the kingdom from my sister's shame.
No one asks why I'm in chains.
No one notices my split lip or the bruises forming on my throat.
No one wants to see the truth.
They lead me outside into the gray dawn. The entire kingdom has gathered—thousands of people filling the streets, craning to see the new bride. When they spot me, a confused murmur ripples through the crowd.
"That's not Celestine—"
"Who is she?"
"The bastard daughter?"
Then Father's heralds begin spreading the story. The lie becomes truth as it passes from mouth to mouth. By the time we reach the ceremonial carriage, half the kingdom believes I'm a hero.
The carriage is white and gold and covered in flowers—beautiful as a dream, terrible as a nightmare. They push me inside, and through the window, I see Father watching with cold satisfaction.
He won. He finally found a way to erase his shameful secret.
The carriage begins moving toward the forest edge. Toward the Thornwood where the Thorn King waits to kill me.
My chains feel heavier with each turn of the wheels. The veil hides my tears, but I can't stop shaking.
I saved Thomas. I saved Mirin. I saved everyone Father threatened.
But I couldn't save myself.
The carriage stops. The door opens. Beyond it, I see the boundary stones marking the edge of the Thornwood—ancient markers carved with warnings in languages older than the kingdom.
And standing just inside the tree line, barely visible in the shadows, is a figure that makes my heart stop.
Tall. Impossibly still. Crowned with thorns that gleam like black diamonds.
The Thorn King has come to meet his bride.
But as I step out of the carriage, chains dragging behind me, something impossible happens.
His head tilts. Just slightly. Like he's confused.
Then he takes one step forward into the light, and I see his face clearly for the first time.
Beautiful. Terrible. Inhuman.
But his eyes—storm-gray and ancient—widen with something that looks almost like... recognition?
"You," he says, his voice like winter wind through dead trees. "You're not supposed to be here."
My breath catches. "What?"
The Thorn King stares at me like he's seeing a ghost. The thorns in his crown begin to writhe, and the entire forest behind him shudders.
"The chosen bride has a mark," he says slowly, dangerously. "A blessing placed at birth. You don't have it." His eyes narrow. "Who sent you to die in her place?"
Before I can answer, he moves—faster than anything human. One moment he's at the tree line. The next, he's standing in front of me, close enough that I can feel the cold radiating from his skin.
He reaches out, and I flinch, expecting him to strike me down.
Instead, his fingers brush my cheek—gentle as snowfall.
"Tears," he whispers, staring at his fingertips like he's never seen them before. "The brides never cry. They come willing, smiling, blessed." His gaze snaps back to mine, and something fierce and terrible burns in those dead eyes. "But you're not willing. You're afraid."
"Please—" My voice cracks. "I didn't want this. They made me—"
"Who?"
"My father. The kingdom. Everyone." The words pour out in a rush. "My sister ran away. They needed a replacement. I'm worthless to them, so they—"
"Lied." The single word comes out sharp as breaking ice. The Thorn King's expression transforms into something cold and furious. "They sent you to die so their precious chosen bride could live."
"Yes."
For a long moment, he just stares at me. The forest behind him grows deathly silent. Not even the wind dares to breathe.
Then he does something I never expected.
He smiles.
It's not a kind smile. It's the smile of something ancient and angry that has just discovered a very interesting problem.
"Well," he says softly, "this changes everything."