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I'll soon be in the ground. Down there among the dirt , clumps of stone, and muck-covered roots. I’ve been before, down in the Pits, where evil goes to die, but I've always been pulled back out, unlike Margaret, whose body is decaying there now.

The three handmaidens bathe me anyway. Their faces flush from the plumes of steam as they prune and prod me. The chains of the Shroud clank noisily as they usher me this way and that. One of them lifts at the chain veil to draw a coarse rag over my mouth and then crams it under the golden cross that intersects my forehead, while the other pulls at my hair from under the bar, cutting down the back of my skull.

My mind retreats into dark corners. What manner of things I’ll be subjected to this evening after I’m wed and the Shroud is removed, my face bared for the first time in twelve years—handed over like a wrapped gift to those who do the bidding of the devil himself.

I dig my nails into the wooden grain of the tub. The usually dull, milk-pale skin of my thighs is red and scalded from the near-boiling temperature of the water, but I don’t utter any complaints. The pain is a welcome distraction from the throb and burn of the dāemon that sings its usual song through my limbs in white, hot rhythms.

They’re much more thorough in bathing me than usual, lathering me with oils of myrrh and sandalwood. Nadine, my sister’s regular handmaiden, is quiet, lips pursed. She won’t meet my gaze, eyes rife with guilt at what she’s preparing me for.

The other two handmaidens nudge elbows into each other’s ribs as they whisper and giggle. As castle handmaidens, they do not usually work in the House of Shroud and it’s apparent by their behavior why they’re not chosen for such an honor.

But their presence here today is intentional. They do not recognize me for who I really am. That I am not my sister, even though I’m so obviously marked as other by the dāemon in the pigment-less white of my hair and the splotchy white mark stretching across my chest.

“You shouldn’t fear it,” one of the handmaidens says, interrupting me from my spiraling thoughts. “Use it to your advantage.”

I lift my head in her direction, chains tinkling. Everything about her is curved and soft, from the waterfall of locks descending her shoulders to the plump shape of her lips.

“They may have power, but this is a woman’s power. This is how we survive.” My posture grows rigid as she trails a hand over my hip to further demonstrate her point.

“Tabetha! You can’t really be advising her to seduce a witch,” the other handmaiden whispers.

Tabetha only grins, flicking droplets of water in the other’s direction. “Even witches must have cocks,” she says, lips exaggerating the consonants of that final word. “And anything with a cock can be…swayed.”

They both erupt into hushed giggles, and Nadine sends them a disapproving scowl. Definitely not fit to work in the House of the Shroud. If the Grand Prioress heard them, the pillory would be the least of their worries.

They finally tug me out of the tub, dry me, brush the tangles out of my long, stark white hair, and fasten it into an intricate braid. Not that it matters. Once they clasp the white fabric piece to the bar of the Shroud, my hair won’t be seen at all. They dress me in the white, billowy gown, almost identical to the dress I wear daily except for the line of golden beading along the sleeves and the hem.

There are no mirrors in the House of the Shroud, but it’s easy to imagine that with the white of my hair hidden by fabric and bars, I’m a mirror image of Syra, my twin. Nadine dismisses the other two handmaidens. As soon as the door shuts behind them she turns a grimace on me. So far, everything is going to plan. Last night, I’d taken to Syra's chambers, and she’d taken to mine to make the switch.

Blinking back traces of remorse, Nadine heaves a sigh. “Ready?”

I only nod, not trusting my ability to speak with the hardening of my throat. She holds open the door, and we both stop short at the sight at the end of the hallway. Syra .

She shuffles forward a few steps as tears spill from her eyes that quickly vanish behind the chains of the Shroud. Panic tightens my ribs as I check the hallway to see if anyone has noticed her. “You’re not supposed to be here,” I hiss.

“I can’t do it,” she chokes. “You can’t go in my place. I’ll go. It’s supposed to be me.”

“Syra,” I say carefully. “You have already agreed. We have all agreed.”

“You don’t understand,” she sobs. “It’s supposed to be me. All of this is my fault. For what I’ve done with—“

I start forward and clamp a hand over her mouth, chains and all. “Quiet,” I hiss.

She jerks her head back. “I’ve already let them take Margaret, and I can’t do it again. I can’t, I can’t. I deserve this,” she sobs.

“You think I don’t?”

“You don’t. You never have. You’ve always gotten the worst, and I’ve never done anything to protect you. I let them—“

My eyes widen in surprise, but her words turn unintelligible with the force of her sobs. It’s been years since we discussed my predilection with the dāemon.

But she’s wrong .

I check the hallway. We’ve already made it so far…she’s going to ruin everything. With Syra still burying her face in my shoulder I throw Nadine a look and point at the chamber door. She appears hesitant only for a moment before she nods gravely. Because we all know Syra does not make sense.

I make sense.

Why my father would choose her over me baffled us all. She’s everything a Shrouded should be. Everything I am not. Not tainted by the dāemon.

I wrap my arms around Syra as if to embrace her and use all my strength to shove her back into Nadine. With a firm grip, Nadine begins hauling her back toward the chamber door.

“Wait,” Syra says, eyes growing wide as she realizes our intention. My stomach gutters. “Wait, no— no, no, you can’t, please!” She thrashes, and I start forward to help Nadine wrangle her. “Please!” She claws at me, clamping her hands tight around my arms. Her cries grow more shrill as I pry them off.

The small amount of her face I can see behind the Shroud turns splotchy with her desperate wails. Noises I’ve never heard pass from her lips before. For once, you’d think it is she and not I who carries the dāemon. Thankfully, Nadine is a good head taller than Syra and holds her firm despite her wild bucking. I reach forward to pull the door shut, and Syra lets out a last blood-curdling shriek that trills through me, hammering the blood in my veins, the dāemon with it.

I slam the door shut, muffling the sounds of her screams behind it. I need to be quick in case she escapes Nadine’s clutches, or someone hears her and comes to investigate. I throw myself down the stairs in a flurry, legs carrying me faster and faster with the forward momentum, matching the furious beating of my heart.

The dāemon swells and expels, fissuring a nearby wall.

Shit. I clamp my will around it, struggling to keep it contained. I come to a sliding halt when I see the Grand Prioress and the Priest waiting for me in the foyer. Sucking in a sharp breath, I arrange my face into my best impersonation of Syra’s typical mannerisms, imagining the emotion falling from my eyes like sand in an hourglass.

Sweet. Calm. Passive.

“Syra,” the Grand Prioress says sternly. “Why are you running, and what’s all that racket?” Her beady eyes turn shrewd amidst the wrinkled plains of her face, and my heart flutters in terror that she’ll recognize me.

“I-it’s Pandora.” I suck in a breath, waiting for her to call me on my lie. She only nods as if that’s not surprising to her.

“Where is Nadine? She was supposed to bring you down.”

“She’s handling Pandora.”

The Grand Prioress grimaces. “Your father and his men are waiting in the courtyard.”

My body stiffens as she advances on me, reaches forward and stuffs something cold and hard into my palm. I look down to find a plain silver locket.

“Hide it,” she hisses. I quickly stuff it in the pocket of my gown. “For your protection. I have sent a bag with your horse, but this you should keep on your person.”

My brows shoot up. The Shrouded are not to claim ownership of material possessions, and the Grand Prioress is hardly one to bend the rules. I imagine it has much more to do with her abhorrence of them and what my father is risking than it does for her love of my sister or any of her charges, for that matter. She sends me a final scrutinizing look before she turns away without saying goodbye, and the Priest ushers me out the doors.

My father’s icy blue gaze pierces into me, and the dāemon pangs in response. The deep indent of his brow is his only acknowledgment of my arrival. I’ve seen him only occasionally since being sentenced to a life behind the Shroud, so it’s not surprising when there’s no suspicion there. Yet, I still feel a twinge of irritation that he doesn’t recognize the differences between his own daughters.

A white mare is awaiting me. I mount it and adjust my skirts around the saddle as the Priest mounts the horse next to me. Accompanying me as a chaperon, I suppose, since he's the only man I'm allowed to speak to besides my father. And to perform the ceremony. After all, it would be improper not to have an ordained priest officiate the wedding, even if they are marrying me off to one of the devil worshipers themselves.

Many of the accompanying soldiers’ gazes flicker over me. They quickly turn away, all too aware of the punishment for so much as interacting with one of the Shrouded—death by stoning.

My father loses no time urging his horse forward, and I grab my reins to follow suit. Falling in line among the river of silver-armored soldiers as we make our way around the shrine of Hises, the Holy Mother of God the Shrouded are fashioned after. We filter out the rampart gates.

Our horses’ hooves litter the dry, dusty streets with noise. The Wall looms on the horizon, the impenetrable shield between us and everything beyond. The sun is just beginning to rise. Most of the kingdom is still tucked safely away in their beds, but a few come out to watch our departure, wearing sharp cheekbones and hungry eyes.

Their eyes find me and linger. What do they see? A person under these chains or merely a sacred symbol? A most deserved sacrifice for failing to keep the vitality and sanctity of this kingdom alive.

Syra’s blood-curdling shrieks echo in my mind until the dāemon is white, hot, and boiling under the surface, snaking through my limbs like streaks of lightning. I should’ve said something, comforted her in some way before fleeing.

It blazes down my right arm and jumps to my third finger before sprouting up my left wrist and scorching near my navel. Searing pain, so intense that I’m surprised it doesn’t burst me right open. I want to scream . It sends a sharp shock through my sternum and sucks the breath from my chest. I want to writhe . It festers in my right thigh and springs forth in my left ankle.

And it wants to ruin .

It pounds from my calf up to my collarbone as I eye the silver-armored soldiers and the people gathered. Do they all feel like this? Like they’re barely keeping the fire in them contained?

Or is that just me?

My knuckles tighten against the reins with the effort it takes to keep it controlled. Despite the storm raging within me, the journey through our kingdom is a somber affair. Besides a few coughs and quiet murmurs, the soldiers don’t engage each other in conversation. I’m not certain if it’s always like this with them or if it’s an artifact of the occasion.

The Wall grows larger as we inch closer until craning my neck to find its end feels like a daunting task. Even the dāemon quiets. Like it knows that it cannot compete with the Walls’ formidable presence.

“Open the gates,” someone calls in the distance.

“Opening the gates!” Soldiers scramble to the hulking, rusted pulley. The gates groan and creak complaints as they’re heaved open.

Gates that were never supposed to be opened.

A rule our society has lived and died by for six hundred years. Yet when my father announced that they would seek sustenance outside the Wall, the people cheered . Despite that, it was against everything we’ve ever been taught, our most sacred tenet.

Because we had begun to doubt . We didn’t believe . Centuries with no sightings. No witch, no monster detailed in our histories.

Nothing.

My pulse thumps faster as the land behind the gate comes into view. Land I’ve spent a lifetime wondering about. Dried yellow grass curls inward against the ground in the same sad, sorry state as our kingdom. A curtain of trees eclipses the horizon. A gust of wind, like an exhalation from the land beyond, sweeps through the open gate, clinking the chains of my Shroud together.

We pass through, and I give the kingdom fortressed by the Wall a last glimpse. The gray-bricked castle to the east and the House of the Shroud to the south. The sacred flame can be seen burning brightly in the tower hearth even from the distance. We move forward and the gates groan as they’re heaved shut with a resounding thump. There’s an echoing finality in that sound.

There’s no return.

At least not for me.

Because they’re marrying me to the Witch.