Page 2

CHAPTER 2

POV: Briar

Death has a visceral, lingering scent that can’t be hidden.

Underneath the sharp aroma of lavender sachets and drying bundles of feverfew hanging from the rafters, beneath the fresh wildflowers arranged on the windowsill, it lingers. Insistent, patient, inevitable death. I’ve known that smell since I was twelve, when my mother’s body surrended to the same wasting illness that is now claiming Willow inch by inch, hour by tortorous hour.

I perch on the edge of her bed, the wooden frame creaking. Even sitting still, I feel too large, too vital, too alive in this room where everything has been pared down to essentials.

Including Willow herself. Gone is any trace of baby fat from her cheeks, any of the curves beneath her shift. Every breath she takes is labored, measured, metered with effort. I miss my vital, wonderful friend.

“Your hair is a mess,” I tell her, reaching for the ivory comb on her nightstand and reaching for a distraction at the same time. “Want me to fix it?”

Willow’s eyes flutter open, green as spring leaves despite the shadows around them. She manages a hint of a wry smile. “Always so practical.”

“Someone has to be.” I slide behind her on the bed, careful not to jostle her fragile frame as I gather the silk strands of her hair. They come away in my fingers too easily, pale wisps floating to the bedspread. I pretend not to notice. "You should see what the baker's boy did to his arm trying to impress the tanner's daughter. Third-degree burns. Your father was up half the night with him."

"Poor Emil." Her voice is a pained whisper. "He's been sweet on Liesel for years."

I work gently, separating her hair into sections. "Well, heroically grabbing a baking sheet with bare hands wasn't his smartest move."

She laughs—a sound like dried leaves rustling. "Not everyone solves problems by hitting them with hammers, Briar."

"Their loss. Hammers are remarkably effective."

The rhythm of her breathing changes slightly—an audible hitch that makes my hands still. We're both painfully aware of how each breath is becoming more labored than the last, despite the herbal infusions and tinctures that clutter her bedside table. Remedies upon remedies, all failing one by one as the life slowly drains from her body.

"Will you tell me about the forge?" she asks after a moment, eyes closed. "Something new you're making."

I resume braiding, letting my voice fill the silence with descriptions of ironwork and commissions, of tempering techniques and the perfect balance of a well-crafted blade. These are safe topics, far from the specter of death haunting the room or the crimson ribbons visible through her window, fluttering from every eave in Thornwick. A sick, twisted celebration of the crimson moon that will bring the village prosperity even as its omegas are cruelly killed.

An edge of anger enters my voice as I think of it, so I force my mind to other subjects, ones that will distract us both. Willow's breathing evens out as I speak, each inhale shallower than it should be. I keep talking anyway, even as she drifts into a restless sleep, my words a shield against the inevitable.

I finish the braid and carefully tie it with a length of blue ribbon—her favorite color, the shadow of cornflowers in the middle of summer. The contrast against her paper-white skin is stark, emphasizing how little time she has.

"She needs to rest."

I glance up to find Thaddeus Ambrose hovering in the doorway, a fresh bundle of herbs clutches in his hand. The village apothecary's shoulders stoop under an invisible weight, his face worn by the deep grief of watching a love one die slowly. I recognize it from my own reflection after my mom died.

I ease off the bed, tucking the blanket around Willow’s shoulder. “Her fever is back.”

Thaddeus nods, moving to his workbench under the window. “I gathered fresh valeria root. It might help with the night sweats, at least.”

He moves with practiced efficiency, crushing leaves and measuring powders with still hands. The same hands that delivered half the village, including me. Those hands will soon place his only daughter into the fae’s hands at the Gathering Circle.

“She won’t survive the journey,” I say quietly, watching his shoulders tense. “You know that.”

His hand on the pestle never falters. “Maybe, maybe not. But she won’t survive to the next full moon either, Hunt or no Hunt.”

“So you’re just giving up.”

Now the pestle stills, the mortar clenched in his hand. Thaddues turns slowly, his shadowed eyes finding mine. “Is that what you think this is?”

“What else would you call it?”

“Mercy.” He sets the mortar aside, wiping his hands on his apron. “Do you know what’s waiting for her if she stays here? Weeks of pain as her organs fail one by one. Bedsores that won’t heal. Then seizures as the disease reaches her brain. I’ve seen it, Briar. I’ve watched it take dozens in my time, your mother included.”

Mentioning her death lands just as he knew it would. I look away, focusing my gaze on the meticulously labeled jars that line the walls. “So instead, you’ll send her out there to be hunted like an animal. Torn apart by rutting alphas competing for the right to claim her.”

“The village receives compensation for each tribute. Enough gold to rebuild our failing ward-stones.” His voice remains, reasonable. It makes me want to scream. “The protective magic that keeps thornwick safe from border raids, from blight, from the very disease consuming her—it all comes at a price. You know this as well as Willow.”

“I know you’re trading her life away.”

“Her life is already forfeit.” His voice breaks. “Don’t you think I’ve tried everything? Every remedy, every tincture, every desperate bargain with hedge witches and traveling healers? Nothing works. All I can do now is ease her pain, and even that I’m failing at.”

I move away from the bed, unable to stay still as rage boils beneath my skin. “So this makes it easier? Telling yourself it gives her death purpose?”

“A quick death at fae hands is preferable to months of suffering,” he says, his voice hollow. “This way, her sacrifice protects the entire village. Including you, Briar.”

My secret hangs between us, unknown by Thaddeus but maybe suspected, given how many times I’ve purchased herbs from him for “allergy symptoms” and “painful menses.” He doesn’t say anything, and he never will, but my guilt is a cramp in my stomach.

“She deserves better than this,” I whisper.

“We all deserve better than what the world gives us. Especially those of us in the borderlands.” He returns to his grinding, signaling the end of the discussion. “She’s made her peace with it. You should try to do the same.”

A slight movement from the bed draws my attention. Willow’s eyes are open, bright from fever and far too knowing.

“You heard us,” I say, moving back to her side.

She reaches for my hand, her cold grip surprisingly firm. “He’s right, Briar. I’ve made my choice.”

“It’s not a choice when there are no other options.”

"There are always options." Her thumb traces the calluses on my palm. "I could fight to stay alive another month, maybe two if we're lucky. Drain my family's resources for treatments that won't work. Watch my father destroy himself trying to save me." Her gaze drifts to her father and back. "Or I can do this. Better me than someone with years ahead of them."

The sad smile that touches her lips makes my heart twist painfully. Willow has always been the gentle one, the one who feeds stray cats and weaves flowers into crowns for village children. Even now, facing her own death, she’s selflessly thinking of others.

"Don't you dare be noble about this," I mutter, blinking hard against the burning in my eyes. "It's a barbaric tradition and you know it."

"Most traditions are, when you look closely enough." Her fingers tighten around mine. "Promise me something?"

"Anything."

"Don't waste your anger on my father. Or the village. Or even the fae." Her voice grows stronger, despite the illness weakening her. "Save it for something that matters."

I swallow the protest that rises in my throat. Willow doesn't need my rage right now; she's got enough on her plate. Instead, I lean forward and press my lips to her forehead, breathing in the lavender scent of her hair one last time.

"I promise," I lie.

The forge welcomes me back with familiar heat and the comforting scent of coal and iron. I don't bother changing into my work clothes or stoking the fire properly. Instead, I grab a heavy hammer and a pile of scrap metal, ready to release my rage at the world.

The first strike echoes through the empty workshop, sending a jolt up my arm. The second follows immediately, and then the third. The punishing rhythm matches the fury pounding through my veins. Each blow absorbs a fraction of my rage, turning a twisted horseshoe into an unrecognizable lump.

I don't hear Fergus enter. It’s only when his scarred hand closes over mine, stilling the hammer mid-swing, that I realize I'm not alone.

"That's enough," he says. "You'll damage the anvil."

I look down to see the metal piece has been thoroughly flattened, and now I’m leaving marks in the anvil's surface. Sweat drips from my chin onto the workbench, and my muscles burn with exertion.

"Sorry," I mutter, setting the hammer aside. "I'll smooth it out."

Fergus guides me to the wooden bench against the wall, pushing a waterskin into my hands. "Drink. Then talk."

I gulp down water that tastes faintly of the river stones it was filtered through. But talking is another thing. Words feel inadequate against the tightness in my chest.

"It's Willow," I finally say, as if this explains anything at all. In Thornwick, maybe it does.

Fergus nods, settling his bulk beside me. For a big man, he moves with surprising gentleness. "The Ambrose girl. Rumors are she’s this year's tribute."

"She can barely stand, Fergus. She won't survive the journey to the Gathering Circle, let alone the Hunt itself."

"Maybe that's a mercy."

I slam the waterskin down. "Why does everyone keep saying that? There's nothing merciful about sending a dying girl to be torn apart by fae alphas!"

"Better a quick death than a slow one." Fergus's voice remains steady, though something dark flickers behind his eyes. "Better to die serving a purpose than wasting away in a sickbed."

"That's what Thaddeus said. Almost word for word."

"Because it's what we tell ourselves to make it bearable." His hand—massive, calloused, bearing the burn scars of decades at the forge—covers mine. "What we've been telling ourselves for generations. It doesn't make it true."

I look up, startled by the bitterness in his tone. Fergus has always been pragmatic about the Hunt, never openly criticizing the tradition, though he finds excuses to be away from the village during selection years. I know he lost a daughter, but he never speaks of her.

Maybe now he will. “I don’t know how you can talk about Willow’s death so casually when you’ve lost a loved one to the Hunt too. It’s like you’ve forgotten.”

“I’ll never forget,” he says fiercely. His fingers trace an old burn scar that travels from his wrist up his forearm. "She was like you. Strong. Clever with her hands. Would have made a fine smith."

My throat tightens. "What happened to her? How did…"

"I’ll never know the details, but maybe that’s better when it comes to the Hunt." His voice drops lower. "They said she was chosen fairly. That the moonstone selection was random. But I saw Headman Lloyd's face when he drew her name. Saw the relief in his eyes that it wasn't his own daughter."

The confirmation of my suspicions—that the selection is manipulated to protect certain families—only fuels my anger. "And you did nothing?"

"What could I do? Challenge the selection? Defy the fae?" Fergus shakes his head. "I was told she would be treated humanely. That if she was too weak to bear fae children, they would cull her quickly, painlessly. A mercy killing."

The word "mercy" again, twisted beyond recognition.

"They lied," I say, already knowing the answer.

"They lied." Fergus confirms, his voice flat. "Three months after the Hunt, a trader from the borderlands brought news. He'd seen the culling pits. Said there was nothing merciful about them."

The hollow ache in my chest expands, making it difficult to breathe. I think of Willow, already so frail, facing such an end.

"I can't let that happen to her," I whisper.

"You can't stop it either." Fergus squeezes my hand once before releasing it. "The best you can do is be there for her in the time she has left. Make her last days peaceful."

But peace is the last thing on my mind as Fergus retires to his quarters, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the dying embers of the forge. Instead, I replay his words about the Hunt, about his daughter, about the lies told to make unthinkable sacrifices palatable.

Night falls over Thornwick, the silver gleam of stars somehow colder and more distant than usual. Through the open forge door, I can see crimson ribbons fluttering from the eaves of nearby houses, blood-red against the darkness. Preparations for the Hunt, protection for the village daughters—old superstitions die hard, and the village takes no chances with fae bargains.

I wait until the last lamp in Fergus's room goes dark before moving silently through the workshop. His door is never locked; trust is implicit between master and apprentice. Still, my heart pounds as I ease it open, slipping inside like the thief I'm about to become.

The floorboards beneath his bed creak slightly as I kneel, feeling for the loose plank I saw years ago when helping him move a heavy chest. My fingers find the slight indentation, lifting carefully to reveal a hidden compartment carved into the supporting beam.

Inside lies a small leather pouch and several rolled parchments, secured with faded ribbon. I remove them with trembling hands, unwrapping the first scroll to reveal meticulous ink drawings—maps of the Bloodmoon Forest, more detailed than any I've seen before. Paths and landmarks are carefully noted, along with symbols whose meanings I can only guess at.

The leather pouch yields a half-dozen iron tokens, each no bigger than a thumbnail and carved with runes that seem to shift in the dim light. Contraband, certainly. Iron in any form is strictly regulated in the borderlands, its natural resistance to fae glamour making it valuable and dangerous.

I pocket everything, replacing the floorboard with care. Fergus will know who took them, of course. But by then, it will be too late to stop me.

My path is set now, as unchangeable as metal cooled after forging. If the fae want an omega from Thornwick, they'll have one—but it won't be Willow. It will be me, with my blacksmith's strength and my carefully hoarded knowledge of the forest.

I may not survive, but I'll make damn sure I'm not easy prey. And if I'm going to die in those woods, I'll take as many fae alphas with me as I can.

For Willow. For Fergus's daughter. For every omega sacrificed to maintain a bargain none of us agreed to.

The crimson moon will rise in three weeks. Until then, I have preparations to make and a deception to plan that will either save my best friend or destroy us both.

One thing is certain: I'm done with mercy.