The dress was beautiful. Made of white silk and Chantilly lace, it was embroidered with pearls that shone like tiny frozen tears. It looked like something a queen or a goddess would wear.
It was a shame it would serve as a shroud.
"You look breathtaking, Mirabelle," Princess Fiona said, her voice dripping with that sickening, honeyed sweetness the public adored so much. She adjusted the veil over Mirabelle's face, her fingers lingering near Mirabelle's throat. "Truly. The Guardian will be pleased."
Mirabelle of Sanctum, the Seventh Princess, the "Spare," stood still in front of the mirror. Her reflection looked back at her: dark hair falling in waves, skin as pale as bone, and eyes that had forgotten how to cry long ago.
"Stop touching me," Mirabelle said. Her voice was a rasp, unused for days.
Fiona pulled her hand back quickly, her perfect golden brows drawing together in a show of hurt. "I am only trying to comfort you, sister. This is a holy duty. You are saving us all. You are saving humanity."
"I am being fed to a monster so father can keep his crown for another ten years," Mirabelle corrected, turning to face her sister. "Let us not dress it up in scripture, Fiona. It insults both of our intelligence."
The heavy oak doors creaked open. King Theodoric walked in with the High Priests at his side. He wore thick velvet robes, and the crown of Sanctum shone under the chandelier's light. He looked at Mirabelle, not with love or regret, but like a merchant judging a piece of bruised fruit.
"It is time," the King rumbled.
Two guards stepped forward, holding the chains. They were not made of iron, but of blessed silver, covered in runes for binding and submission. The chains were ceremonial, meant to show she was a sacrifice, but the cold metal on her wrists felt real enough.
Mirabelle did not resist. She did not scream. She had already spent the past week screaming until her throat was raw, locked away in the tower. Now, all she felt was a cold, heavy weight in her chest.
A weight that felt like hatred.
They marched her through the Citadel. Citizens lined the streets, tossing flower petals. Red roses landed on the cobblestones, looking like splashes of blood. They cheered for her. They wept for her. The brave Princess. The Martyr.
Mirabelle looked at their faces and felt sick. 'They are cheering for my death,' she thought. 'They are glad it is me and not them.'
The procession ended at the edge of the capital, where the world simply... stopped.
The God's Throat.
It was a sheer cliff that dropped into nothing. Below, clouds twisted in strange shades of violet and black. No bottom was visible. Only endless, hungry darkness that seemed to whisper if you got too close.
The High Priest started to chant, his voice a dull sound that irritated Mirabelle. The wind grew stronger, blowing her veil around her face.
"Mirabelle," the King said, placing a hand on her shoulder. For the crowd, it looked like a father saying goodbye. "The Kingdom thanks you."
Mirabelle leaned in, her lips brushing his ear. "I hope you rot, Father. I hope the rot starts in your toes and eats you slowly, while you sit on that throne."
The King stiffened. His grip on her shoulder turned painful, his fingernails digging into her flesh. "Die with dignity, girl," he hissed. "Do not shame us now."
He shoved her.
It was not a gentle push. It was a hard shove, as if he could not wait to be rid of her.
Mirabelle stumbled backward. Her heel caught on the edge of the cliff. For a moment, she balanced between the world of light and the world of darkness. She saw Fiona smiling, a small, triumphant smirk hidden from the crowd behind the King.
Then, gravity claimed her.
The wind roared in her ears and tore the veil from her head. Her white dress whipped around her like a frantic ghost. The cheers from the crowd vanished, replaced by the howling of the Abyss.
She fell.
She fell for what felt like hours. The sky's light shrank to a tiny dot, then disappeared. The air turned freezing cold.
'This is it,' she thought, closing her eyes. 'This is the end.'
As she fell deeper, the darkness thickened and became almost solid. It slowed her fall, catching her like a spiderweb catches a fly. The runes on her silver chains started to glow with a sickly purple light. The sacrifice had been accepted. The magic was bringing the offering to its destination.
Her feet touched solid ground with a soft thud.
Mirabelle gasped and fell to her knees. The stone under her felt smooth, like black glass. It was silent here, so quiet it seemed to press against her ears.
She slowly lifted her head.
She was in a cavern so large she could not see the ceiling. The space was lit by thousands of floating red lights. They drifted through the air like embers from a dying fire.
"Another one?"
The voice seemed to come from all directions. It was deep and bored, but carried a power that made the hair on Mirabelle's arms stand up.
"They get smaller every decade," the voice mused. "Scrawny things. Hardly worth the effort of chewing."
From the shadows ahead, a figure emerged.
He was huge. That was her first thought. He stood well over six feet tall, his chest bare and shaped like marble, pale and covered in scars. He wore loose black trousers that hung low on his hips, and his feet were bare on the cold floor.
But his face made her stop breathing. He was strikingly handsome, with sharp, noble features and hair as white as the snow on Sanctum's peaks. But his eyes...his eyes were crimson slits, glowing with a hungry look.
And around his neck, stark against the pale skin, was a heavy collar of black iron. A thick chain trailed from it, vanishing into the darkness behind him.
The World Eater. Revas.
He walked toward her, the chain rattling softly with each step. He stopped a few feet away and looked down at her with both amusement and disdain. He reached out, his clawed hand lifting her chin and making her meet his eyes.
"Well, little sacrifice," he purred, baring teeth that were just a little too sharp to even be considered human. "Go on. Scream. Beg. Pray to your false gods. It adds a little flavor to the meat."
Mirabelle shook. Her heart pounded against her ribs like a trapped bird. Every part of her wanted to run.
But then she remembered the look on Fiona's face. She remembered her father's shove. She remembered the cheers of the people who wanted her dead.
The fear in her chest changed. It cooled, hardened, and became something sharp.
Mirabelle slapped his hand away.
The sound echoed in the silent cavern.
Revas blinked. He looked at his hand, then back at her, his expression shifting from boredom to genuine shock.
Mirabelle stood up. She straightened the front of her ruined wedding dress. She met the monster's eyes, her chin held high.
"I am not meat," she said, her voice steady, cold as the abyss surrounding them. "And I am done praying to gods who don't listen."
Revas tilted his head, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his face. The red embers in the air seemed to swirl faster, reacting to his mood.
"Interesting," he murmured. "You aren't asking for mercy?"
"No," Mirabelle said. She took a step toward him, her eyes locking onto the iron collar around his neck before meeting his crimson eyes. "I'm asking for a deal."