Elara's POV
The white dress doesn't fit right. It squeezes my ribs too tight, like it's trying to crush the air from my lungs before I even reach the gates.
I guess that's the point.
"Stop fidgeting." My stepmother's voice cuts through the silence. She won't look at me. Hasn't looked at me all morning. Her eyes stay fixed on the window, watching the street below where people are already gathering. "You're making wrinkles."
I want to laugh. I'm about to die, and she's worried about wrinkles.
Instead, I press my left hand flat against my stomach, hiding the silver crescent-shaped mark on my palm. The Moonmark. The reason I'm wearing this dress. The reason I'm going to die today.
My twentieth birthday. What a gift.
"The carriage is early," my stepmother says. Still not looking. "Lysander will escort you down."
She leaves. The door clicks shut. I'm alone with my reflection.
The girl in the mirror looks like a bride. White dress, clean face, hair brushed until it shines. Pretty enough, I guess. But her eyes are wrong—too empty, too tired. She looks like she's already dead.
Maybe she is.
I turn away from the mirror and find my half-brother leaning against the doorframe. Lysander. Thirty-five years old, handsome in that sharp way that makes people trust him, and the reason I'm in this dress.
"You volunteered me," I say. Not a question. We both know what he did.
"Someone had to go." His voice is smooth, casual, like we're discussing the weather. "The lottery chose a merchant's daughter. Her father offered me fifty thousand gold to find a replacement. Fifty thousand, Elara. That's enough to expand our trade routes into three new cities."
"So you sold me."
"I made a smart business decision." He pushes off the doorframe and walks closer. "You were never going to marry. No one wants a cursed wife. You can't go to parties because you might accidentally touch something dark and collapse screaming in front of everyone. You're useless except for one thing."
He grabs my left hand, forcing it open. The Moonmark gleams silver in the morning light.
"This," he says. "This gift you waste by feeling sorry for yourself."
The gift. That's what he calls it.
I call it a curse.
Seven years old. The necklace is beautiful—gold chain, red stones that sparkle like fire. Father brings it home from one of his trips. Mother reaches for it. I'm faster.
The moment my fingers touch the metal, pain explodes through me. It feels like my blood is boiling, like something's trying to claw its way out of my skin. I scream. I can't stop screaming.
Then, just as suddenly, the pain vanishes.
The necklace lies in my palm, still beautiful. But the stones aren't red anymore. They're clear. Pure. The dark magic that cursed them is gone.
Absorbed into me.
Father stares. Mother stares. Lysander, thirteen years old and already calculating, smiles.
"Well," he says. "Isn't that interesting."
That was thirteen years ago. Thirteen years of locked rooms and secret midnight sessions. Thirteen years of Lysander bringing me cursed artifacts—jewelry, weapons, books, anything contaminated by dark magic from the Scorched Wastes. Thirteen years of burning pain as I cleanse them with my touch. Thirteen years of him selling them for fortunes while I recover in the dark.
I yank my hand free. "The pain I feel when I cleanse things—do you even care?"
"Pain is temporary. Gold is forever." Lysander straightens his jacket. "Besides, you won't have to feel it anymore after today. The Warden will kill you, or you'll run into the wastes and the creatures will. Either way, our problem is solved."
"Your problem," I correct. "I was never our problem. I was just your tool."
For a second—just a second—something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt?
No. Annoyance.
"It's time," he says. "The carriage is waiting."
He leaves.
I stand alone in my room for the last time. This room that's been my prison. Four walls covered in paint that's supposed to be cheerful but just looks fake. A bed I've cried myself to sleep in more times than I can count. A window I'm not allowed to open because someone might see me.
I walk to that window now. Open it. Lean out.
The street below is packed with people. They line up along the route the carriage will take, all dressed in their best clothes like this is a festival. Some hold flowers. Some hold handkerchiefs, ready to dab at fake tears. All of them are grateful.
Grateful it's not them.
The tribute system is simple: every year, Stellaris sends one person beyond the gates to serve the Warden, the monster who protects us from the horrors in the Scorched Wastes. One life to save thousands. One sacrifice to keep the city safe.
No tribute has ever returned.
No one knows what happens to them. The city tells itself they live in service to the guardian, that it's an honor, that they're heroes.
The city lies to itself a lot.
I close the window.
When I turn around, I find something on my pillow that wasn't there before. An envelope. Heavy paper, no name written on it. I open it with shaking hands.
Inside is a single card with seven words written in handwriting I don't recognize:
You are more than they deserve.
That's it. No signature. No explanation.
I stare at those words until they blur. Someone knows. Someone cares enough to sneak into my room and leave me a message on the day I die.
But who?
A knock on the door makes me jump. "Miss Elara?" A servant's voice. "The carriage is ready. Your brother is waiting."
I hide the card in my palm, pressing it against the Moonmark. Then I walk to the door.
My hand freezes on the handle.
What if I don't open it? What if I refuse to go? What if I fight?
But I know the answer. They'll drag me. They'll force me. And I'll lose even the small dignity of walking to my death on my own terms.
I open the door.
The servant's eyes are red like she's been crying. "I'm sorry," she whispers.
I don't answer. I walk past her, down the stairs, through the house where I grew up but was never really home. My father's study door is closed. He's in there, I know. Too much of a coward to say goodbye.
Fine. I don't want his goodbye anyway.
Lysander waits by the front entrance. He offers his arm like a gentleman. I ignore it and walk past him into the morning light.
The crowd goes silent when they see me.
The carriage is white, pulled by white horses, driven by a man in white clothes. Everything white. The color of death in our city.
I climb inside without help. The door shuts. Through the window, I see Lysander watching me. Our eyes meet.
He mouths two words: Thank you.
Not sorry. Not goodbye.
Thank you.
For making him richer. For solving his problem. For being useful one last time.
The carriage lurches forward.
The crowd starts throwing flowers. They land on the roof, on the windows, soft thuds like rain. Everyone's crying now, performing their grief for each other. A little girl breaks free from her mother and runs alongside the carriage, waving.
I wave back.
It's the only real thing I've done all morning.
We roll through the streets. Past the market where I've never been allowed to shop. Past the theater where I've never seen a show. Past the park where I've never walked. Past the life I never got to live.
The city gates come into view.
Massive. Ancient. Made from stone and steel and magic. They've stood for three hundred years, keeping us safe from the Scorched Wastes beyond.
Guards in black armor stand at attention. When they see the white carriage, they move to the gate mechanism.
The crowd has followed us here. Hundreds of people, all watching, all safe, all going home tonight.
The gates begin to open.
Slowly. So slowly.
Through the widening gap, I see it—the Scorched Wastes. Gray land. Dead trees. Sky the color of old bones.
The carriage stops.
The driver opens my door. "End of the line, miss."
I step down. My white dress immediately gets dirty from the dust. My stepmother would hate that.
The thought almost makes me smile.
I walk toward the gates. My legs feel like they belong to someone else. Each step is harder than the last.
Ten steps away.
Five.
Three.
I stop just before the threshold. Turn back.
The crowd watches in silence. Lysander stands at the front, arms crossed. My stepmother is there too, finally looking at me. My father is nowhere to be seen.
I want to scream at them. Want to curse them. Want to tell them exactly what they are.
Instead, I reach into my palm and pull out the card. Hold it up so they can see.
You are more than they deserve.
I am.
I turn back to the wasteland and walk through the gates.
Behind me, they close with a sound like thunder.
I'm alone.
I take three steps forward on the stone path that leads into the dead land. Then I hear it.
A voice. Quiet. Coming from right beside me.
"They finally sent someone interesting."
I spin around.
There's no one there.
Just empty air and the closed gates behind me.
"Down here," the voice says, amused.
I look down.
A rabbit sits on the path. Completely normal except for one thing: it has three eyes. The third one, right in the middle of its forehead, glows with soft silver light.
The rabbit tilts its head. "You can see me. That's new."
I open my mouth to scream.
The rabbit's third eye flashes bright.
Everything goes dark.