Elara's POV
The water burns.
I scream as the priestesses force me into the sacred bath, my skin turning red instantly. It's not regular water—something's been added, something that feels like liquid fire eating through my flesh.
Purification requires pain, the head priestess says coldly, holding my shoulders down when I try to escape. The Bride must be cleansed of all earthly sin.
Two more priestesses grab my arms, keeping me submerged to my neck. The burning spreads everywhere. Tears stream down my face, mixing with the horrible water.
This is only day one.
Six more days of this. Six more days before I die.
When they finally pull me out, my skin is raw and blistered. They don't give me anything for the pain. Instead, they paint symbols across my arms, my stomach, my back—black ink that stings like poison in my burns.
Death symbols. Preparation marks.
I'm being decorated for slaughter.
Please, I whisper, I need to see my sister
The Bride speaks to no one, the head priestess snaps. You belong to Solarius now. Not to your family. Not to yourself.
They lock me in a windowless preparation room with only a hard bed and a basin of water. The door seals with a heavy click. I'm alone in the darkness, skin burning, marked like livestock, waiting to die.
I curl into a ball and let myself cry.
Day three. The symbols cover more of my body now—intricate patterns spiraling across my ribs, down my spine, circling my throat like a noose. Each new mark burns worse than the last.
I've stopped eating. What's the point? In four days, I'll be dead anyway.
The priestesses force-feed me anyway. The Bride must be strong for the ceremony, they say, shoving bread down my throat while I choke.
I hate them. I hate Valdris. I hate Seraphine.
I hate that no one's coming to save me.
Day five.
The lock clicks open after midnight. I jerk upright, heart pounding—has the time changed? Are they taking me early?
But it's not the priestesses.
Elara!
Mira slips through the door, closing it quietly behind her. My best friend since childhood, the girl who failed temple selection three years ago because of a crooked finger that made her imperfect. Right now, her imperfection saved her life.
I wanted to hate her for that. Instead, I throw myself into her arms and sob.
Shh, shh, they'll hear you, Mira whispers, but she's crying too, clutching me tight. Gods, Elara, what have they done to you?
She sees the burns. The symbols. The way I've lost weight, the way my hands shake constantly.
They're preparing me, I say flatly. For divine fire. For Solarius. For whatever lie they tell to hide murder.
Then we run. Mira grabs my shoulders, fierce and desperate. Right now. I have horses waiting outside the east wall, supplies, everything. We disappear into the desert—
They'll kill my family.
Your family sold you to this!
The words hit like a slap. We both freeze.
Father didn't know, I whisper, needing it to be true. Seraphine arranged it, but Father—he wouldn't
He smiled, Elara. At the ceremony. He smiled.
I close my eyes against the memory. She's right. He did smile. Like my death was an honor instead of murder.
If I run, I say slowly, they'll execute Father. And Miri. My baby sister, Mira. She's only ten years old.
So you die to save people who threw you away?
I die to save Miri. She's innocent in this.
Mira's face crumples. She knows I'm right. Temple law is absolute—a Bride who runs gets her entire family burned alive in the plaza. Public execution. No exceptions.
I can't watch you die, Mira sobs.
Then don't come to the ceremony. I pull her close one last time. But promise me something. When I'm gone—watch over Miri. Don't let Seraphine destroy her too.
Mira nods against my shoulder, shaking with tears.
We hold each other until footsteps echo in the hallway. She slips out the way she came, and I'm alone again.
Two more days.
Night six.
The door opens. I expect priestesses.
Instead, Seraphine glides in, wearing emerald silk that probably cost more than our house. She looks perfect. Untouched. Satisfied.
I don't bother standing. Come to gloat?
Come to ensure you understand your role. She sits gracefully on the single chair, studying me like an insect. Your sacrifice secures our family's status. The Ashenveil name will be legendary—the family who gave a Bride to Solarius. Merchants will fight for our business. Nobles will court your sisters.
You mean your daughters, I spit. The children who actually matter to you.
Her smile sharpens. Exactly. Your father's first marriage produced one useful thing—you. Beautiful, pious, perfect. The ideal sacrifice. She leans forward. Did you know the Temple accepts bribes? A generous donation, a few whispered suggestions about which virgin catches the sun's favor...
My stomach turns. You paid Valdris to choose me.
I ensured he chose you. Your beauty threatened my daughters' prospects. Suitors noticed you instead of them. You had to go. She stands, smoothing her dress. Tomorrow night, you'll burn. My daughters will inherit everything. And your little sister Miri will learn her place—beneath them.
Rage floods through me, hot and violent. If I survive this
You won't. She walks to the door, then pauses. Don't ruin this with hysterics tomorrow. Die gracefully. It's the only worthwhile thing you'll ever do.
The door closes. Locks.
I'm shaking so hard my teeth chatter. She murdered me for inheritance. For status. For nothing.
I want to scream. To smash everything in this tiny room. To tear the death symbols off my skin.
Instead, I curl on the bed and whisper the lullaby my real mother used to sing. The one that always made me feel safe.
Hush now, little star...
Tomorrow I die.
Tonight, I pretend someone still loves me.
The blood moon rises, massive and red, filling my tiny window with crimson light.
Seven days are over.
Heavy footsteps echo in the hallway. Multiple sets. Armor clanking. Keys jingling.
My heart hammers against my ribs. This is it. This is real. I'm going to die.
The lock turns.
Temple guards fill the doorway, their faces hidden behind ceremonial masks. The lead guard's voice is flat, emotionless:
It's time, Bride.