Page 56 of Breaking Isolde

I shuffle to the bathroom, flip on the light. My face in the mirror looks like a stranger’s. My hair is stuck to my scalp with sweat, cheeks sunken, lips chapped and split. The skin around my eyes is so purple and puffy it looks painted on. The bruises on my neck from last night are blooming, fresh and obvious.

I splash water on my face. It stings, wakes me up. I brush my teeth with hands that won’t stop shaking. I spit red.

I go back to the room, flop on the bed, and stare at the ceiling. I count every little dent and stain. The more I focus on nothing, the less I feel.

I almost fall back asleep, but something’s wrong. I sit up, eyes scanning the room.

That’s when I see the box.

It wasn’t there last night. I’m sure of it.

It’s on the dresser, huge and white, tied with a cream ribbon. There’s a card on top, propped up, glaring at me.

How did I miss this?

I don’t move. I just stare at it, heart thumping.

After a minute, I get up. My feet drag across the floor. The box seems bigger the closer I get, like it’s breathing.

I pick up the card first. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop it.

The envelope is thick, smooth, expensive. The script is perfect—old money calligraphy.

I slide my thumb under the flap, tear it open.

Inside: one line, black ink, no signature.

“The Night Hunt begins tomorrow evening at 8pm.”

I read it twice. My vision blurs. My stomach flips.

I want to scream, but I can’t. The panic is so bright and loud, it drowns out every other thought.

I ball the card in my fist, turn to the box.

It’s heavy. The lid lifts off slow, like it’s been glued.

Inside: a dress. White, perfect, pressed flat like something dead. There’s tissue paper, but it’s barely doing its job—the fabric glows, practically radioactive.

Fuck, it’s like the one in my dream.

I reach in and touch it. The material is soft, slippery, cool. I pull it out and hold it up to the light.

High neck, capped sleeves, cinched at the waist, the skirt long enough to tangle your feet when you run.

On top of the dress, wrapped in more tissue, is a crown. A real flower crown, heavy and cold. Lavender and white roses, stems braided so tight I can’t see the wire underneath. The flowers are fresh, their scent a punch in the face.

I drop it on the dresser and back up until the backs of my legs hit my bed. My hands are shaking so hard I have to sit down. I clutch the dress to my chest, rocking back and forth, the panic rising until it’s a scream behind my teeth.

I stare at the card, the words burned into my skull.

The Night Hunt begins tomorrow evening at 8pm.

I want to throw the box out the window, light the dress on fire, smash the flowers to pulp. But I can’t move.

All I can think is: this is it. The endgame. The point of everything. I’m the prey, the target, the sacrificial animal for all of Westpoint’s elite to see.

Rolling my eyes over my desk, I land on Casey’s photo.