The question landed like a stone in her chest.

She didn't answer. Couldn't.

Instead, she drew him close, wrapping her arm around his shoulders as the last of the daylight died.

The bells did not ring again that evening, but the silence they left behind was worse.

Twilight thickened over the village, shadows stretching long across the dirt paths. Windows shuttered one by one, lanterns flickering to life behind thin panes of glass. The square, so loud with shouting only hours before, now lay abandoned—like a mouth suddenly closed against a scream.

Aria lit her own lantern and set it on the table. The flame wavered, thin and uncertain, as if it too feared the dark pressing against the walls.

Her mother had dozed into shallow sleep by the hearth, her breath uneven. Tomas sat cross-legged near the door, whittling at a piece of wood with his small knife, though his hands shook too much to shape anything.

Aria tried to busy herself grinding herbs that no longer had much potency. The pestle scraped against the bowl, a sound that grated more than soothed. She paused, staring down at the powder, and whispered under her breath, "What use is a healer with no healing left?"

Tomas's knife slipped, nicking his thumb. He hissed and dropped the wood.

Aria was at his side in an instant. "Hold still." She pressed a cloth to the tiny cut, though it hardly bled at all. Still, her chest tightened at the sight of red.

He looked up at her, eyes wide and too bright in the lantern light. "Do you think he's real?"

She froze. "Who?"

"The Shadow Prince," Tomas whispered, as though the name itself might summon him. "Some say he's only a story. But… the way Elder Marrek spoke…"

Aria forced her voice calm. "Stories have power, Tomas. They grow bigger every time they're told. But power doesn't make them true."

"Then how do you explain the crops?" His words tumbled out, desperate, searching. "And the woods—no birds anymore, no deer. Even the dogs won't go near the trees at night."

She had no answer.

Instead, she stroked his hair back from his brow, trying to anchor him. Trying to anchor herself.

──── ୨୧ ────

Later, after Tomas had curled on his pallet near the hearth, Aria slipped outside.

The night air was cool, scented with damp earth and woodsmoke. She pulled her shawl tight and walked toward the well in the center of the square. Her steps echoed far too loud in the emptiness.

The moon had risen, pale and thin, casting a silver glow over the rooftops. The forest loomed at the village's edge, its trees swaying like dark sentinels. Aria couldn't look at it too long without feeling as though it looked back.

At the well, she lowered the bucket, the rope creaking. The water's surface shimmered with moonlight. For a moment, she saw her own reflection, pale and uncertain. Then—

A ripple.

The face in the water blurred, stretched, darkened. Eyes glowed faintly in the depths, gold as embers.

Aria stumbled back, the rope slipping from her hands. The bucket dropped into the well with a hollow splash.

She stood frozen, heart pounding so loud she thought it might wake the whole village. But when she dared to peer again, the water was calm. Only her own face stared back, wide-eyed and frightened.

A trick of the light, she told herself. Shadows. Nothing more.

And yet, her hands wouldn't stop shaking as she hurried back home.

──── ୨୧ ────

By the time she returned, voices murmured in the distance. She paused, straining to listen. They came from Elder Marrek's house at the far end of the square.

A council meeting. Another one.

She lingered in the dark, close enough to hear the rise and fall of heated words though not the exact shape of them. Still, a few carried clear:

"…before the new moon—"

"…lottery must be fair—"

"…if we fail him, the whole valley will suffer."

Her stomach sank. A lottery. That was how they would choose. Not by volunteering, not by merit, not by age. By chance.

Any girl between sixteen and twenty-one.

Her age.

Aria pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from making a sound. The world seemed suddenly small, no bigger than the space between the council house and her door. A trap closing.

──── ୨୧ ────

When she slipped back inside, her mother was awake. She sat upright in the chair, eyes sharp even through her weariness.

"You heard," she said flatly.

Aria swallowed. "Only pieces."

"They'll draw lots."

It wasn't a question.

Aria sank to her knees beside the chair, burying her face in her mother's lap like she had when she was a child afraid of thunderstorms. "What if—"

Her mother's hand stroked her hair, steady despite the tremor in her fingers. "Then I will curse every god who allows it," she whispered. "And I will tear down the forest myself before I let him take you."

Aria's throat burned. She clutched her mother's skirt, clinging to the fierceness in her voice. But even as she tried to believe it, the shadows near the window thickened, stretching long across the floor.

And if she listened closely, beneath the crackle of the fire and the quiet breathing of her brother, she swore she heard something else.

A voice, low and velvet, curling like smoke.

"Aria…"

Her name. Spoken from the dark.

She snapped her head up, but the window showed only her own lantern's glow.

Still, the sound lingered, wrapping around her like a promise and a warning all at once.

──── ୨୧ ────

The next day dawned gray, as though the sky itself wanted no part in what was to come.

The village stirred reluctantly, doors creaking open, smoke rising in thin streams from chimneys. No one lingered in the square, not like on market days when laughter and bargaining filled the air. Today, every face was grim, every step heavy.

Aria felt it pressing on her chest even before she rose from her straw pallet. A weight that made it hard to breathe.

Her mother sat by the hearth, already awake though her eyes were shadowed by sleeplessness. Tomas picked at a crust of bread without appetite.

"You don't have to go," her mother said, breaking the silence.

Aria glanced up sharply. "Every girl must. You know that."

"They cannot force you."

Aria almost laughed—sharp, humorless. "They can. You've seen them drag girls before."

Her mother's mouth tightened, but she said nothing more.

Aria braided her hair with quick, rough movements, her fingers clumsy. The act felt surreal, as if she were dressing for her own funeral. She tied it with a strip of cloth, then slipped her shawl over her shoulders.

Her mother caught her hand before she could leave. "Listen to me. Do not look afraid. Do you hear me? Men like Marrek—monsters like him—prey on fear. Don't give them yours."

Aria nodded, though her pulse thundered in her throat.

──── ୨୧ ────

The square filled slowly, the crowd gathering like a storm cloud.

The council stood at the front, their faces carved from stone. Elder Marrek held the wooden box in which the lots had been placed. Beside him, Councilwoman Elda clutched her staff, lips pressed tight as if she, too, despised what they were about to do.

The girls stood together in a line, drawn from every corner of the village. Aria recognized each one: Mira's cousin Liane, only sixteen and pale with terror; Veya, the blacksmith's daughter, her jaw clenched in defiance; Salenne, a farmer's daughter who twisted her hands until her knuckles blanched.

Aria took her place among them, her knees threatening to buckle. The murmurs of the crowd pressed like waves against her ears.

"They should send one of the council's own daughters—"

"Don't speak such blasphemy—"

"Better one than all of us—"

The words tangled, harsh and desperate.

Elder Marrek raised his hand, and silence crashed down.

"You know why we gather," he said, his voice deep and steady. "The Shadow Prince demands his bride before the moon wanes. The curse spreads further each day. If we deny him, we all perish."

He opened the box. Inside lay slips of parchment, each bearing a name.

Aria's stomach twisted.

The councilwoman stepped forward, her wrinkled hand reaching into the box. The moment stretched unbearably, the crowd holding its breath.

Her fingers closed around a slip. She drew it out slowly, unfolding it with care.

The square seemed to shrink, the air turning to glass.

She read the name aloud.

"Aria of the healer's house."

──── ୨୧ ────

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then a cry split the air. Tomas's voice, raw with horror. "No! Not Aria!"

Aria's legs went weak. The ground seemed to sway beneath her. She heard her mother's ragged sob, felt eyes turn toward her, hundreds of them, hot and pitying and relieved that it wasn't their name.

Her heart beat so hard it hurt, like it was trying to escape her chest.

Elder Marrek's voice cut through the din. "It is decided. By chance, by fate, by the will of the old ways. Aria will be given."

"No!" Her mother shoved forward through the crowd, her frail body trembling with fury. "She will not go! Take me instead!"

Marrek's gaze slid over her with the indifference of a butcher over a fly. "The Shadow Prince does not take what is not offered. The lot has been cast."

He turned back to the crowd, dismissing her anguish as though it meant nothing.

The villagers shifted uneasily. Some averted their eyes. Others whispered prayers under their breath.

Aria stood frozen, her breath shallow, her vision blurring at the edges. The world tilted, and for a terrible moment she thought she might collapse.

But then Tomas's hand found hers, small and shaking. His eyes were red, his face streaked with tears.

And she remembered her mother's words: Do not look afraid.

So she straightened her back. Lifted her chin. Even as her heart thundered, even as her hands trembled, she stood tall.

The crowd's murmur shifted, softening. A ripple of awe, perhaps, or guilt.

Inside, Aria was breaking. But she would not let them see.

──── ୨୧ ────

That night, the village prepared the offering.

Girls chosen in the past had been dressed in white, adorned with flowers, sent into the forest at dusk. Some never looked back. Some screamed until the trees swallowed their voices.

None ever returned.

Aria sat on the edge of her bed, staring at her bare hands. She could not imagine herself draped in white like some willing bride. She could not imagine walking into the woods knowing a monster waited.

Her mother knelt before her, holding her face in trembling hands. "I will find a way," she whispered fiercely. "I will beg the gods, curse the sky, strike down Marrek himself if I must. I will not lose you."

Aria wanted to believe her. But deep down, she knew the truth. The wheels of fate had already turned. The trap had closed.

Tomas burst into the room then, wild-eyed. "I'll go instead! They won't know—it could be me in your place—"

Aria seized his shoulders. "No. Don't even think it."

"But—"

She pulled him against her, holding him tight. "If you love me, you'll stay. You'll protect Mama. You'll live."

His sobs soaked her shoulder. She held him until his body stilled, though his heart still pounded like a trapped bird.

When he finally fell asleep curled beside their mother, Aria sat awake in the dark, staring at the flickering shadows on the wall.

And once again, she heard it.

Her name, whispered from somewhere beyond the window.

"Aria…"

A voice like velvet, like a promise wrapped in poison.

The shadows stretched long across the floor, reaching for her.

She pressed her hands to her ears, but the sound was already inside her, coiling around her soul.