Chapter Text
“Once upon a time, there were eight courts of the Fae. Their lands stretched across valleys of ever-blooming flowers, over mountains so high they scraped the sky, and through rivers whose waters run silver instead of blue. The Fae were beautiful beyond words, their hair woven of sunlight and starlight, their eyes sparkling with ancient wisdom, and their skin flawless as marble. And though they were powerful, they were kind. With gentle hands and generous hearts, they watched over the fragile, mortal world, sharing their knowledge and passing on their wisdom.
“But knowledge and magic can be treacherous, and greed is man's greatest weakness. Humiliated by their mortality, humans picked up their swords and severed their ties with the faeries. But their recklessness would be their undoing. As generous as the faeries were, they could not overlook the foolishness of the mortals, and a war that lasted seven years broke out.
Decimated, the humans finally laid down their weapons and made a treaty with the faeries. Humans were banished from the faerie lands forever, but future generations would also suffer from their greed.
“And so, the Fae created the Hunt.
“Every twenty years, the strongest among them would gather for a great game. But not against each other―against the bravest of humans. To be chosen is an honor. To survive is to become a legend. To win… well.”
Elain’s voice is soft as she reads the words floating through the dimly lit cottage. The firelight catches in her golden-brown hair, illuminating the gentle waves that fall over her shoulders. Her warm eyes scan the words as if they hold real magic, real hope.
The children gathered at her feet listen with rapt attention, their little faces bathed in the flickering glow of the hearth. They hang onto every word, every promise of wonder.
Feyre leans against the far wall, arms crossed.
She knows this story. Everyone does.
She knows the way mothers whisper it to their children at night, a tale of golden palaces and noble warriors, of human rising to meet the challenge and proving their worth.
A fairytale.
A lie.
Because the Hunt was never a game. And the Fae - the beautiful, wise, and generous Fae―
Feyre lets out a quiet breath.
“Evil bastards, you mean.”
Nesta doesn’t look up from where she sits by the window, her cold blue eyes fixed on the fabric in her hands. Her hair is pulled into a tight braid, a few loose strands slipping free to frame the sharp angles of her face. Her sewing needle flashes in the firelight as she works, her movement precise, controlled.
Her voice is flat, emotionless, but Feyre sees the way her fingers have gone tense around the fabric in her lap.
Elain hesitates, the words on the page suddenly fragile in her hands. The children glance uncertainly between them.
Feyre exhales through her nose, pushing off the wall, while Nesta's eyes graze the second oldest. “Go on, Elain. Tell them the rest.”
Elain eyes flicker to Feyre. Something in them pleads, as if asking must we?
But they must. Because whether the story is spoken aloud or not, the truth lingers in every cold wind that sweeps through their village, in every whispered rumor that snakes through the streets.
Because the twentieth year is here.
Feyre watches as Elain turns the page, her voice faltering slightly, almost as if she’s afraid of the words she’s about to speak. The children are still wide-eyes, caught in the spell of her gentle tone. Yet Feyre knows what comes next in the story, and it’s a story - nothing more than a story.
But even so, the tension is thick, palpable in the air. The Hunt is coming. Feyre can feel it in her bones, like a storm on the horizon.
“Elain,” Feyre interrupts, her voice sharp, though she doesn’t mean for it to be. She doesn’t want to spoil her sister’s moment, but she can’t help herself. Her fingers twitch by her side, eager to grab her bow. “Maybe we should leave the rest of the story for another day, yeah?”
Elain looks up, her brown eyes soft and filled with quiet concern. She hesitates, but then closes the book with a gentle snap. The pages are well-worn from years of reading, the edges curled and faded.
Feyre stands by the door, already pulling on her cloak. It’s too late to stay idle. It’s been a while since she’s ventured into the woods. The village is running low on supplies, and hunting is the only thing she knows how to do to help.
“Are you sure you’re going now?” Elain asks, her voice soft, almost as if she’s trying to keep her younger sister from leaving. “You’ve barely eaten.”
Feyre shoots her a half-smile, though it’s thin. “I’ll manage.”
Nesta doesn’t even look up from the window, her blue eyes fixed on something distant.
“Don’t come back empty-handed,” she mutters, but Feyre hears the unspoken warning in her oldest sister’s voice. Don’t die out there.
It’s not something Feyre needs to hear, but it’s a comfort nonetheless.
“I won’t,” she says softly before pulling open the door and stepping out into the cold morning.
The forest is quiet when she enters, just the soft crunch of leaves under her feet and the whisper of the wind through the trees. There’s a calmness here, away from the suffocating noises of the village. Her bow feels familiar in her hands, the weight of it grounding her.
She moves with the ease of someone who has spent her life in the woods, each step calculated and sure. She’s learned to listen to the forest, to read the sounds, to know when the animals move and when they pause. Feyre’s stomach growls in reminder, but she keeps her focus, scanning the trees for movement.
It’s an hour before she finally catches sight of a stag, grazing in the clearing. It’s coat is a rich, dark brown, and its antlers are wide, a beautiful crown of velvet and bone. Feyre crouches low, positioning herself behind a thicket of brush. She knows she’s only got one shot, maybe two, and she doesn’t want to waste it.
The bow is steady in her hands, her breath slow and measured. She draws the string back, the arrow pointed just above the stag’s heart.
But just as she’s about to release, she hears a crunch - a twig snapping, too loud to be a natural sound.
Her eyes dart to the side. Nothing.
Nothing at all.
She knows the forest to well. That wasn’t the wind.
The stag raises its head suddenly, ears twitching, and before Feyre can react, it bolts, disappearing into the woods in a blur of dark brown fur. Her heart sinks as she watches it disappear, the hunt slipping through her fingers.
With a frustrated breath, she turns, heading deeper into the woods.
Feyre shifts the weight of the stag’s hide across her shoulders, the fabric of her cloak already damp with blood. The meat is wrapped carefully in cloth and slung over her arm, but the strain of carrying it all presses into her sore muscles.
She barely feels it.
The woods have long since faded behind her, replaced by the uneven dirt paths and weather-worn cottages of the village. The air is thick with scent of fresh bread and damp earth, the sounds of late morning commerce weaving through the streets. This is the best time to trade — before the sun climbs too high and before the merchants decide they can afford to be stingy.
Feyre makes her way toward the small butcher’s stall near the center of the village, the wooden cart lined with slabs of drying meat, their edges dusted in salt.
Drian, the butcher’s son, is already at work, his ruddy face flushed from the effort of chopping through thick bone. He glances up when Feyre approaches, his brown eyes scanning the bundle of meat she carries.
“Good haul?” he asks, wiping his hands on his apron.
Feyre nods and shifts the weight off her shoulder, letting the bundle of stag meat rest on the table. “Good enough. I’ll need salt, flour, and whatever dried fruit you’ve got left.”
Drian whistles low. “A whole stag, and you’re only asking for that? You could get more.”
She tightens her grip on the cloth. She knows. She could barter for more, maybe even enough for a few luxuries like sugar and spices. But she doesn’t want to owe anyone. And she doesn’t want to draw attention.
“I need it to last,” she says simply.
Drian considers her a moment before nodding. He turns to fetch the goods, disappearing behind the stall.
Feyre breathes out slowly, rolling her shoulders. She hates bartering. Hates standing here, waiting, while the merchants and villagers mill about, their conversations blending into a constant hum.
She’s about to scan the stalls for other supplies when she catches a familiar voice a few feet away.
“―the Children of the Blessed―”
The words snap her focus toward a group of women gathered near the weaver’s stall, their voices hushed but urgent. Feyre stiffens, straining to hear without looking like she’s listening.
“They came through the western villages two days ago,” one woman murmurs, her fingers gripping the edge of her wool shawl. “They’re moving faster this time.”
Another woman, older, shakes her head. “Of course they are. They become more eager with each Hunt.”
Feyre keeps her face impassive, but her fingers twitch against the cloth bundle in her hands.
She knows what this means. Everyone does.
The sacred, unbreakable cycle.
Another merchant leans in. “Did they take anyone yet?”
“Not from here. Not yet.” The woman swallows. “But they will.”
A heavy silence falls over them.
Drian returns then, setting down a sack of flour, a small pouch of dried berries, and a block of salt. Feyre barely acknowledges it. Her mind is elsewhere.
The Children of the Blessed are coming.
She exhales, pushing aside the uneasy curling in her gut and forces herself to focus as she pulls out a stack of meat and pushes it across the counter.
Drian hesitates, eyeing her carefully. “You alright?”
“Fine,” she nods and gathers her supplies.
But the weight in her chest tells her otherwise. She turns away from the stall, gripping the sack of goods a little tighter as she makes her way back home.
She doesn’t run. That would attract too much attention, and she knows better than to let the village see her panic. But her steps quicken as she weaves through the narrow streets, past the sagging rooftops and crumbling stone paths.
The damp air clings to her skin, thick with the scent of smoke and damp earth. Somewhere behind her, the market still hums with quiet chatter, but she barely hears it over the pounding in her ears.
Their cottage sits at the far edge of the village, where the land flattens before stretching into bare fields and deep woods. The roof is missing a few shingles and the wooden fence is nothing more than a collection of half-rotten posts. It isn’t much. It never has been. But it's her home.
By the time she reaches the door, her breath is uneven. She doesn’t knock, just pushes inside, bracing herself.
The scent of burning wood and dried herbs greet her. The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting flickering light against the stone walls.
Nesta is at the table, head bowed over a tattered book. Her fingers trace the brittle edges of the pages, but the second Feyre steps inside, sharp eyes flicker up. Assessing.
Elain and the children, thankfully, are nowhere in sight.
Good.
Feyre drops the sack onto the table, the soft thud breaking the quiet. “They’re coming.”
Nesta doesn’t blink. “Who?”
Feyre exhales through her nose, pushing a hand through her tangled hair. “The Children of the Blessed.”
That gets a reaction.
Nesta stills, fingers tightening around the book’s spine. The glow of the fire casts long shadows across her face, making the slight furrow of her brow seem deeper, sharper.
“How soon?”
“They’ve already started moving through the western villages,” Feyre says. “The market’s full of rumors. No one knows exactly when, but it’ll be soon.”
Nesta leans back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. The candlelight glints of her nails — short and clean, but Feyre knows better. She knows the kind of claws Nesta keeps hidden beneath her poise.
“And?” Nesta’s voice is unreadable.
And.
The word lingers between them, thick with all the things Feyre doesn’t want to say out loud.
And Elain is in danger.
And we can’t just sit here and pretend everything will be fine.
And we need to do something.
“We need to get ahead of this,” Feyre finally says.
A slow breath. The rhythmic tap of Nesta’s fingers against the tabletop. Feyre watches, waits, as something shifts in her sister’s gaze — something like hesitation.
It’s only there for a moment before Nesta blinks it away. But it’s enough.
Feyre narrows her eyes. “What do you know?”
Nesta exhales sharply, pushing the book aside. Then, after a pause, she says, “Lord Nolan visited yesterday.”
Feyre’s stomach drops.
Lord Nolan.
A name with weight. A man with too much land, too much wealth and too much power.
“He came asking for Elain,” Nesta continues. “Offered to take her in.”
The world tilts, just slightly.
“Take her in?” Feyre repeats, though she already knows the answer. Already feels the cold dread creeping up her spine.
Nesta’s expression darkens. “He wants a new wife.”
The words land like a blow. The room feels smaller, suffocating her. Feyre grips the edge of the table, pulse hammering in her throat. She knows what this means. Knows what men like him do when they decide they want something.
Men like Lord Nolan. Men like Tomas.
Nesta is watching her, waiting.
Feyre swallows hard. “His wife hasn’t even been dead for a full winter, and he wants a new one? Elain is younger than his son.”
Nesta nods. “I know.”
“What did you tell him?”
There’s no hesitation. “I told him no.”
Relief rushes through her, but before she can exhale, Nesta adds, “I also told him that if he came back, I’d slit his throat.”
Feyre blinks.
Then, despite everything — despite the fear and the looming Hunt and the absolute absurdity of it all — she lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
Nesta just raises a brow.
“You really told him that?”
A small shrug. “Would you rather I let him take her?”
No. Never.
But still, Feyre knows that saying no to a man like Lord Nolan isn’t without consequence. She knows that Nesta has likely just made an enemy.
“We don’t have much time,” she murmurs.
“No,” Nesta agrees. “We don’t.”
For a moment, neither of them speak. The fire crackles. The wind rattles the shutters.
Then, finally, Feyre says, “If Elain’s name is on that list―”
“She wont go,” Nesta cuts in, voice sharp. “I won’t let her.”
Feyre nods. Despite the fights, their differences and the years of resentment shimmering between them: on this, they are in agreement.
The Fae can take whoever they want.
But they are not taking Elain.
Feyre hears them before they see them.
The sound of bells. Just the faintest chime, carried on the wind like an echo of something long forgotten.
The market has gone quiet. Conversations falter, laughter dies. The usual hum of life dulls to a murmur as the villagers turn, stepping back instinctively, making way for the figures drifting through the thinning crowd.
The Children of the Blessed.
Feyre stills.
There are only a handful of them, no more than six, moving in a loose formation — together, yet apart. Their robes are pale, thin as mist, catching the late afternoon light like gossamer. Their hands remain clasped, fingers entwined as if holding one another steady, as if tethering themselves to this world.
They are… beautiful. But not in the way Elain is beautiful, or even in the way the High Fae are rumored to be. It is an unnatural beauty. Their hair gleams too bright, their skin is too smooth, too untouched by time or hunger or grief. They look as if they have never known filth. Never known sickness. Never known anything but light and silk and the softest of dreams.
But their eyes―Gods above, their eyes.
Too bright. Too knowing. Too old.
They glide through the market in twos and threes, their bare feet silent against the cobblestone. A young man with golden curls smiles at an old woman selling potatoes, as if sharing a joke she has long since forgotten. The woman flinches, clutching the wooden pendant around her neck.
Others bow their heads, whispering prayers under their breath. Some turn away entirely, making a warding gesture against evil.
Because they know.
Everyone knows.
These are the winners.
The ones who survived the Hunt twenty years ago.
The ones who should have died.
A young woman leads them. Barefoot, her dark hair spills like ink down her back, unbound and rippling in the breeze. She moves like the others, weightless, her steps soundless, but there’s something different about her. Something heavier. The others are dreamlike, lost in their own haze, but she… she watches. She sees.
Feyre knows the moment those eerie, too-old eyes settle on her.
The girl tilts her head, like she’s listening to something no one else can hear. The corner of her mouth lifts in the faintest, knowing smile. Feyre grips her bow tighter.
A low voice murmurs beside her. “Creepy bastards.”
Feyre startles. She hadn’t noticed Nesta approaching, but there her sister stands, arms crossed tight, cold eyes narrowed. There’s no fear on her face, there never is, but the sharpness of her glare is enough. Nesta watches the Children of the Blessed the way one might watch a snake slithering through the grass.
“They’re not dangerous,” Feyre mutters, though her own voice betrays the doubt curling in her gut. “They’re just…” She hesitates. Just what?
Just human? She isn’t sure about that.
Nesta doesn’t take her eyes off them. “They’re not right.”
Feyre frowns but doesn’t argue. Because her sister isn’t wrong. There’s something… off. The way they never stop smiling. The way their fingers twitch as if reaching for something unseen.
As if longing to pull someone else into their madness.
“Survivor’s guilt,” Feyre says at last, more to herself than to Nesta.
Nesta snorts, soft and bitter. “That’s not guilt. That’s fairy wine.”
Feyre stiffens. “You don’t know that.”
Nesta’s jaw tightens. “You’ve never seen a drunken man try to walk straight? They move the same way. Expect…” She narrows her eyes, voice dropping lower. “Expect they’re not stumbling. They’re floating.”
Feyre doesn’t reply. Because now that Nesta said it, she sees it, too. The dazed, dreamy expressions. The way their limbs sway, loose and weightless, like they aren’t entirely here.
Fairy wine. Or worse.
The leader lifts her hand.
A slow, deliberate motion. A beckoning.
Feyre and Nesta both go still.
The girl’s expression remains unreadable, distant, but her gaze — her gaze locks on Nesta. And she smiles.
A shiver rolls down Feyre’s spine.
She doesn’t know she’s stepping forward until Nesta’s hand clamps around her wrist, yanking her back.
And the girl speaks.
“You look like her.”
Feyre’s stomach turns to ice.
A thousand questions rise in her throat, but Nesta moves first, gripping Feyre’s arm hard.
“We’re leaving,” Nesta says, voice hard like steel.
Feyre doesn’t argue.
She lets Nesta pull her away, through the thinning crowd, past the ringing bells and knowing smiles. But as they go, as the last of the marked fades behind them, Feyre swears she hears, too close to her ear to be possible―
A voice.
Deep. Alluring.
“You look like her.”
The bells stop ringing long before Feyre and Nesta reach their home.
But the silence they leave behind is worse.
They have a day. Less than that. The sun has dipped past the horizon, shadows stretching long and thin across the worn wooden floor as Feyre pushes open the door. She can hear Elain humming while she's cutting some bread, but it does nothing to ease the tightness in their chest.
Elain glances up as they enter, her soft eyes flickering between them. “You’re late.”
Feyre doesn’t answer.
Nesta kicks the door shut behind her. “The blessed freaks were in the square”, she mutters, peeling off her cloak.
Elain brightens. “Oh, did they bring gifts?”
Nesta’s glare could curdle milk. “If by ‘gifts’ you mean thinly veiled insanity and the stench of fairy wine, then yes.”
Elain sighs, exasperated. “You’re so dramatic.”
Feyre doesn’t join in. She sets down her bow and bag, her fingers absently smoothing over the rough fabric.
She can still hear the voice.
You look like her.
Feyre’s stomach turns.
“They’re survivors. They should be admired, not feared,” Elain continues.
“They should be locked up,” Nesta bites back.
Elain’s lips press together. “You don’t know what they’ve been through.”
“Oh, and you do?”
Feyre pinches the bridge of her nose as they start bickering, their voices low but sharp. She should step in, should stop them before it escalates―but she can’t focus.
Because tomorrow is Choosing Day.
And Elain’s name might be called.
Her gaze flickers to her sister — the soft curve of her face, the gentle way she tucks a strand of golden hair behind her ear. Elain doesn’t look worried. Maybe because she doesn’t understand. Maybe because she doesn’t want to.
A slow breath pushes past Feyre’s lips.
If her name is called…
The thought doesn’t finish itself.
Because it won’t happen. It can’t happen.
She won’t let it.
Feyre straightens abruptly. “I’m going out.”
Elain blinks. “It’s almost dark.”
Nesta eyes her. “Where?”
Feyre grabs her bow again, strapping it to her back. “The woods.”
It’s not a lie. But it’s not the truth either.
Nesta watches her for a long moment. She knows. Of course she knows. But she doesn’t stop her. Doesn’t say a word as Feyre slips out the door.
The night before the Choosing, the world holds its breath.
Feyre pulls her threadbare cloak tighter around her shoulders as the wind tugs at her hair. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke, but it does nothing to clear the weight pressing against her ribs.
She shouldn’t be out her. Not when every shadow feels like it’s watching. Not when the wind whistles through the trees like something breathing. But inside, the cottage walls were closing in. Inside, Elain had been humming to herself, soft and sweet and utterly unafraid.
As if tomorrow is just another day.
Feyre exhales, pressing a hand to her chest.
“I won’t let her,” Nesta had said.
As if it was that simple.
As if they weren’t already unraveling at the thought.
Because there’s only one way to handle it.
If they call Elain’s name―
Nesta will go in her place. And Feyre won’t let that happen.
A shiver rolls down her spine. She glances toward the trees at the village’s edge, but the forest is nothing more than a dark void, stretching wide and endless. Somewhere out there, past the hills, past the rivers, past the ruins of things no one speaks of, is the border to the Fae lands.
And beyond that, the Hunting Grounds.
No one speaks of the Hunt itself.
Not the survivors. Not the widows. Not the parents who never saw their children return.
Even in the years before she was born, when the Hunt was more frequent, the details were always the same: murky, whispered half-truths passed down through wary mouths.
Feyre swallows and turns back toward the house. She doesn’t know how long she stayed outside. The candlelight inside flickers against the window, a faint glow in the darkness. She slips inside, easing the door shut behind her.
The fire has burned low. Nesta is still awake, lying rigid on her cot, her back to the room. But Feyre knows she’s not sleeping. Neither of them will tonight.
Elain, at least, has the mercy of dreams.
Feyre’s gaze softens as she looks at her sister, curled beneath the blankets, her hair spilling across the pillow. Even now, her face is peaceful. Hopeful.
Elain, who still smiles when it rains.
Elain, who hums while she works.
Elain, who doesn’t deserve this.
Feyre clenches her fists in the fabric of her cloak. There are whispers that the Children of the Blessed choose the prettiest ones, the ones the Fae will like best.
And Elain―
Elain was made for softer things. For sun-dapped gardens and warm kitchens and days spend dreaming about a world that doesn’t exist for people like them.
Not for this.
Not for tomorrow.
The wind wails against the walls. The candle sputters once, then goes out.
And in the dark, Feyre swears she hears laughter.
Morning comes too soon.
The village square is packed with people, the air thick with murmurs, fear, and something sickly sweet: anticipation. The whole town has gathered, as they always do, but no one speaks above a whisper. It is tradition, after all, to watch.
Feyre stands with Nesta and Elain near the back, tucked beneath the skeletal remains of the market awnings. The sun is weak, barely cutting through the gray sky, and for once, she’s grateful.
At least they hadn’t been forced to dress their best. That had always been a rumor, that the chosen were paraded in fine clothes, wrapped in silks and perfumes to make the Hunt more appealing. But the Children of the Blessed had never demanded it, and this year was no different.
Small mercies.
“They’re beautiful,” Elain whispers, barely audible over the murmuring crowd.
Feyre follows her gaze to the front of the square, where the Children of the Blessed stand in a line, their white robes pristine despite the muddy streets.
Nesta scoffs beside her. “They’re rotten though, Elain.”
Elain frowns, arms wrapped around herself. Feyre doesn’t blame her. The Children of the Blessed don’t look real. They look like people who have been scrubbed clean of humanity, polished into something else.
And then one of them steps forward. A woman, draped in flowing robes, golden-haired, her face so unblemished it looks like it’s never known hardship. Feyre wonders how her life had been before, while she speaks, her voice warm and thick like honey.
“It is time.”
Silence falls over the square. Even the wind stills.
The woman spreads her arms, a radiant smile on her lips. “It has been twenty years since the last Hunt. Twenty years since the Fae, in their mercy, allowed the best of us to join them. To prove ourselves worthy. To live among them, blessed by their gifts.”
Feyre’s stomach churns.
The villagers are silent, as they always are, but the Children of the Blessed are beaming. As if this is something to celebrate.
The woman continues, her voice carrying through the square, past the crumbling homes, past the bare fields and into the woods. “You know the rules. Every twenty years, the strongest among us are chosen. Fifty souls, brave and bold, sent into the Fae lands to partake in the Hunt.”
Feyre feels Elain tremble beside her. Nesta’s fists are clenched.
“But this year,” the woman says, pausing for effect, “is a very special year.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
“This year,” the woman says, eyes shining, “will be unlike any Hunt before. For the first time in two centuries, the mighty High Lords themselves will take part.”
The words slam into Feyre’s chest like a fist.
High Lords. The High Lords will hunt.
Nesta swears, low and furious. Somewhere in the crowd, someone lets out a choked gasp.
The woman only smiles. “And so, to honor this glorious occasion, the Fae have requested a grander Hunt. Instead of the usual fifty, one hundred and fifty souls will be chosen.”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Nesta steps forward, her face twisted in fury. “That’s not a Hunt,” she snaps. “That’s a slaughter.”
The Children of the Blessed only laugh, light and musical, as if Nesta has made a joke.
A man in the crowd raises his voice, shaking with barely contained fear. “Why? Why so many?”
Another voice. Drian. “It’s against the treaty.”
The golden-haired woman grins. “Because our lords and masters deserve a real challenge.”
Feyre can barely breath.
A hundred and fifty souls.
High Lords.
The Hunt has always been a death sentence wrapped in pretty words, but this? This was a culling.
The woman spreads her arms, drinking in the fear around her like fine wine.
“The Fae are generous,” she croons. “They ask only for the best among us. The swiftest, the cleverest, the most beautiful. It is an honor to be chosen. And the villages of the survivors will be lavishly rewarded.”
An honor.
The words claw at Feyre’s throat.
She risks a glance at Elain, at the way her sister’s hands tremble where they clutch her skirt. Nesta is rigid beside her, eyes blazing with murderous intent. But no one speaks. No one dares.
Because the names have yet to be called.
The golden-haired woman lifts a scroll, unrolling it with slow, deliberate movements. Feyre can hear her own heartbeat in her skull, against her ribs, a steady, pounding rhythm.
“By the will of the Fae,” the woman declares, “one hundred and forty-three souls have already been chosen from your neighboring villages. Only seven remain.”
The village holds its breath.
The woman lets the silence stretch, savoring it. And then, she begins to read.
“Clare Beddor.”
A sharp cry. Clare stiffens as her mother clutches her, shaking her head in silent horror.
“Janus Millard.”
A boy with curls staggers back. His father grips his shoulders, keeping him upright, but his face is ashen. He turned fifteen only two full moons ago. Barely old enough to participate.
“Marcos Lestern.”
Another name. Another broken sob.
“Tomas Mandray.”
Nesta exhales sharply, something like satisfaction flickering across her face. Feyre glances at her sister and sees it — the cruel, bitter pleasure in her eyes. She can hear Nesta’s voice in her ears. Good. Let him rot.
Feyre had never asked for details. She had only seen the bruises Nesta had pretended weren’t there. Tomas had never come near her again after that.
“Ruth Dalloway.”
Only two left.
Feyre grips Elain’s wrist, grounding herself, grounding her.
“Elain Archeron.”
The world stops.
The air vanishes from Feyre’s lungs.
Elain sways beside her, lips parted, silent and stunned.
No.
No, no, no―
Nesta moves first. “You will not take her.”
The woman’s smile is pitying. “The names are chosen, my dear. It is not for us to deny the Fae their claim.”
Elain makes a sound. It is small, broken. Feyre can’t think. Can’t breathe. She only sees her sister, pale and trembling, her hands clenched in the folds of her skirt like she can keep herself here, tethered to this place, this life.
Her sister. Her kind, gentle sister.
No.
Before Nesta can react, Feyre steps forward. “Take me instead.”
The words slice through the silence, clear and sharp.
Murmurs rise, but Feyre doesn’t hear them. She only hears her own voice, her own pulse roaring in her ears.
One of the Children of the Blessed tilts her head. It is the same girl from yesterday. The one whose eyes aren’t as clouded. “A sacrifice?”
Feyre swallows hard. “A trade.”
A pause.
A slow, delighted smile.
And then―
“Oh, sweet child.” The golden-haired woman’s voice drips with amusement. “You misunderstand.”
She lifts the scroll once more. Unrolls it just a fraction further.
“Feyre Archeron.”
A single chime of a bell. A shudder ripples through the crowd.
Nesta sucks in a breath. Elain lets out a strangled sob.
Feyre stands frozen, the weight of her own name sinking into her bones, colder than the morning air.