PROLOGUE
𝙱𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝙵𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚜
That fact truly sinks in as I lie on the forest floor, cool earth beneath me, sharp sticks and stones digging into my back. Insects claim my matted hair for their nests, feast on the blood trickling from my skin. This was always the plan. Notmyplan —theplan. Even when my mother cradled my newborn body and fled a million miles away, they knew I’d come back. Maybe some hoped I’d die here.
The forest is far from silent. My mind blurs the line between reality and memory. Screams echo — pain, anger, terror — weaving a symphony of dread. We all just wanted to make it out alive.
When the trial began, the sound of it all was numbing. But as the sun dragged its way across the sky, the screams withered. I couldn’t tell if it was from death or adaptation. I wouldn’t know unless I survived.
Survive. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? Weed out the weak. Welcome the strong — reward them with unimaginable power after a week of terror and starvation.
My body seizes again. I open my eyes, confused. One moment, I was gulping down water from the first river I’d seen in days. The next, I was puking it up — blood and half-digested scraps staining the ground beside a patch of flowers. My eyes shift to them.
Poisonous flowers.
Of course.
The air around them glows with bright, swirling pollen, toxic to breathe. I’ve seen them before — in books from herbology class. But in my haze, I’d missed them. The realization hits me, and I gasp, struggling to move, my limbs thick and heavy like they’ve been dipped in molasses. Every second I stay here is another breath closer to choking on this honey-sweet death.
My legs fail me. They’re as steady as jelly. I roll to my stomach and dig my fingers into loose dirt, dragging myself forward. Blood stains my front. My nails wear down to nubs. But the further I crawl, the clearer my head becomes. The thinner the air, the more strength I gain.
I can’t die here — not when it’s almost over.
The full moon will rise in less than an hour. I just need to make it back to the coven. Back to my life — the only one left to claim it.
I grip a nearby branch and haul myself to my feet, callused soles barely holding me up. I lean on the trees, stumbling away from the flowerbed that nearly became my grave. I lost my sense of direction on the second day and have been wandering aimlessly since. Everything blurs — a fever dream stitched together by hunger and panic.
It started well enough. The fifteen of us decided to stick together. Safety in numbers, we thought. I was grateful. I wasn’t left out for once. Then, on the third night, someone poisoned the water skins with moon berries.
Half the group died. The rest scattered. That was the start of the paranoia — and the end of any hope we had.
As far as we knew, no one had ever committed murder during previous Lunar Ceremonies. Lesson learned: ifthatdidn’t cross the line, maybe there wasn’t one to begin with. Fifteen turned to eight. Survival became a solo act.
The screams have been my only sign that others are still alive — if they’re real. White Tree Forest is full of frightlings — small, gnome-like creatures that mimic the final screams of the dead. They eat the vocal cords of corpses. They thrive here. Why wouldn’t they? Every year, they’re given a fresh offering of human meat.
I claw my way up a tall tree, breath ragged. My hands grab branch after branch until I breach the canopy. The cotton-candy sky unfolds above me — blues, pinks, and purples bleeding together as the sun sets and the moon begins its rise. From here, I can just barely make out the path out of the forest.
The tension drains from my body.
Too fast.
Unnatural.
The full moon crests the treetops. My next breath feels like glass shredding my throat. Panic slams into me as the woods fall silent, but my mind fills with whispers. A scream rips out of me in pure, raw shock.
I’d forgotten the final test.
My mother told me about this. How she barely made it back before she overflowed with the ancestors’ gift.“Don’t curse them,”she’d say.“They only want to help.”
It’s time to leave this blood-soaked forest.
I practically slide down the tree, falling the last few feet. I barely feel it. The voices are louder now, frantic, commanding.
"GET UP."
I obey.
My legs are numb. Cracks spread beneath my feet, glowing blue, the ground fracturing with each step. Magic pulses inside me, trying to escape. Amid the chaos, one voice rises above the rest, soft and clear. It guides me.
I follow it.
Every snap of a twig sends adrenaline shooting through me. Then — footsteps behind me.
I whirl around, hand outstretched. A bloom bursts from my fingertips — a flower the size of my palm with a stem as sharp as a blade. It stops just shy of piercing a boy’s chest.
“Sagato.”
His name falls from my lips like a curse.
His golden-veined eyes gleam with power and madness. “Don’t be afraid, Rieneke.” He cooed as if soothing a deer.
I stare at his hands — clenched, trembling. “Do you think I’m going to hurt you?” He frowned. “It’s been one hell of a week...”
Two steps forward, pressing into my flower.
Yes.
Yes, I do.
He’s hurt me before — carved his initials into my stomach at ten, drowned me in a shallow pond at thirteen, nearly took my finger at fifteen. At sixteen, I’m certain he was the one who poisoned the water.
He always liked thinning the competition.
And now, he is here. Playing all the contrived games he used to before he became a murderer.
“Are you listening, Rieneke?”
My eyes snap up. He flicks my flower aside with only a wave of his wrist and strides toward me. His hand shoots out, gripping my jaw painfully.
“You know I missed you?” His voice softened to a whisper. “You left me out here all alone. I was worried sick about you.” Sagato’s fingers loosened around my jaw, trailing up to my cheek. He held me like he was about to embrace a lover.
Vines slither up my legs, locking me in place.
“How many are left?” My voice was hollow. Far away was my mind.
“Just you and me. Maybe a few stragglers, but they won’t last long. Given the damage and all.” It was like we were going over spells. Eyebrows pinched together, and voice as casual as a summer breeze. He didn’t care.
“You’re worse than a cadaver, at least at some point, they were considered human.” My death felt inevitable; why hold back now? Killing me will only be a blip in his long, miserable life.
Sagato smiles like it’s funny. “When you talk to me like that, I really believe this might be love. But then you do things like run from me. I even prepared a lovely drink for you. A parting gift”
There comes a point where I realize that I am not scared. I am simply confused. The magic humming through me is like an energizing muscle relaxant. I feel unsteady and jittery. The ground beneath my feet is as fragile as glass when is press my toes into it.
“I wasn’t thirsty.” The rasp came out before I really thought it through. I was reaching deep into the pulling feeling at the base of my skull. The more I focused on it, the harsher my fingertips buzzed. I was itching in the most distracting way. I didn’t see how his eyes bled black.
The blow to my face comes fast. It was like a dam had opened. Blood filled my mouth so fast I almost choked on it. I crumpled, hands bracing my descent into moss. It was like the trees closed in on me, leaning in to observe. Maybe I was scared. My breaths felt like they were running away from me.
“Bullshit.” The kick landed in my abdomen, and before I could gasp, another hit my chest. “You thought you could trick me? As if I’m not your dearest admirer. You really don’t care about me at all? I tried to make it quick for you. Painless.” I felt pressure around my ankle before he bodily pulled with all his force. Dragging me across the forest floor. “Now this has to be a real statement. A more memorable goodbye.”
Pain explodes through my thigh — a vine impales me clean through. My vision went white for a moment, and I twisted in a way that tugged at my insides, heaving so violently that I lurched forward before the vine pulled me back. I could feel it rip through me further.
“When you watch me from behind the veil, I expect you to know exactly who I am.” He hummed like the thought satisfied him. “Let this experience burn onto your soul.” He dropped my leg, but it only drove the vine in deeper. His hand clasped mine tightly, and a second later, another vine nailed me to the ground.
A sigh left him as he stared at what he made of me. “I think this is love.” He pulled away, leaving a flower in the palm of my hand, nearly ten times the size of any regular flora. Sagato slumped against a nearby boulder. He almost looked sad.
And I realize, with a laugh bubbling in my throat — the buzzing that is shaking me from the inside out is the same magic running through his veins. The earth he used to attack me with was my weapon, too. I did not savor this exhausting dance the way Sagato did. I just wanted to go home and for the first time ever, we’re equals.
Yet I’m still the one bleeding. He still deems me defenseless. With a shallow breath, I clutch the flower that stabbed into my palm and push the magic through it with all my strength. In the split second it took for him to register that I was moving, a vine emerged from the ground and embedded itself into the soft, warm place behind his left eye. Soon, several more made a home of him.
“I don’t think this is love.” I groan and truly consider letting the earth claim me too. It would be easy. I am half dead already; it won’t be long before the blood loss gets to me. I reach with my good hand, dissolving the vine impaling me with simply the thought of wanting it gone.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I limp out of the forest. The holes in my body were haphazardly wrapped in leaves and plugged with vines of my own. More vines cradle my weight.
Gasps and hurried footsteps meet me at the edge of the village. Hands catch me. A blanket is draped around my shoulders.
“You were the first one out,” someone says.
But I stay frozen, watching the forest.
By dawn, only one more emerges.
Vito.
They say maybe —maybe— there’s a third.
They carry us away. Bathe us. Heal us. Strip us clean of the week’s horrors.
But nothing washes away the memory.
“How’d you make it out?” Vito asks.
“I listened to the voices,” I mumble.
“You heard them too? I saw Sagato,” he says, brushing his hair. “From a treetop. Thought he’d be first. Imagine my surprise.”
He doesn’t say what I know he knows.
Sagato is dead.
And I don’t regret it.
I should have done it sooner.
Before 15 became 8.
Before 8 became 5.
Before 5 became 2.
Before we all became shadows.
They dress us in finery — silk, gold, jewels from the land. Painted our bodies in divine symbols. Crown us like champions.
But we are not victorious.
We arehaunted.
Vito conjures flowers for my hair — one for each of the fallen.
One behind his ear. He carries what I cannot. Shoulders a burden I am ready to run from.
We ride to the temple in a carriage meant for more.
I imagine the others here, laughing, full of life.
A warm wetness trails down my legs.
Startled, I check the carriage for leaks — none.
I look to Vito.
His face is solemn.
Only when I turn to the window do I understand.
It’s not water.
It’s tears.
The girl in the reflection is still me. Older yet feeling none the wiser.
Terrified. Grieving. Alive.
I squeeze Vito’s hand.
And finally — I sob.
