RAVELLE

Ravelle:⁠-⁠|

The noise woke the entire village before the sun could.

Voices overlapped—shouting, arguing, whispering like the wind carried fear from one house to another. It was the kind of sound that didn’t belong to ordinary days. It was heavier. Sharper.

Today was Wednesday.

October 11.

Two days before the thirteenth.

And no one had been chosen.

I stood near the edge of the market, watching the people gather in restless clusters. Faces pale. Hands trembling. Eyes darting as if something might already be watching from the shadows.

Every year, it was the same.

Every Friday the 13th.

A bride must be given.

To Orchid’s.

Some called him a man. Most did not.

They said he had cold blood and a temper that burned hotter than fire. They said he once walked among us—but whatever he was now… it wasn’t human.

To the village, he was not a groom.

He was a hunger.

And this year, the hunger had not yet been fed.

I turned when I felt it—my mother’s gaze.

She stood a few steps away, holding a basket full of carrots, her knuckles pale against the woven handle. Her eyes were fixed on me, wide with something I had never seen so clearly before.

Fear.

No—

guilt.

Then someone shouted from across the market.

“There’s no last daughter registered this year!”

The words struck like a crack through glass.

My mother’s breath hitched.

Before I could speak, she rushed toward me, grabbing my hand with a grip tighter than I thought she was capable of. The basket slipped from her arm, carrots spilling across the dirt as she pulled me away from the crowd.

We didn’t stop until we reached an empty cart at the far end of the road, hidden from the others.

“Hey—Ravelle, look at me.”

Her voice trembled.

I did.

She tried to smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Nothing could hide the fear there—not from me.

“What is it, Mother?” I asked softly.

But I already knew.

I had always known.

I was the last daughter of our family.

And if the village was searching—

then they were searching for me.

Her fingers tightened around mine.

“Don’t tell them,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t tell them you are my last daughter.”

Her eyes locked onto mine, desperate. Pleading.

As if silence alone could save me.

As if the truth wasn’t already rooted too deep to hide.

I was never good at lying.

I never would be.

But still…

I nodded.

Just enough to make her believe.

Even if, deep down, I knew—

there were still two days left.

And the village was running out of time.