THE VILLAGE GAVE AN ORPHAN TO THE MONSTER—SHE RETURNED WEARING HIS CROWN

The chapel was cold, damp, and smelled of centuries of rotting wood and stale incense. The stained glass windows depicted the Great Beast rising from the waves, swallowing cities whole, its jaws dripping with silver foam.

Anya sat on the stone floor, her back pressed against the altar, her cheek throbbing where the priest had hit her.

The heavy oak doors creaked open.

Footsteps echoed across the flagstones. It wasn’t the guards.

Three elderly women entered, carrying a heavy copper basin and a bundled garment. They moved with the quiet, mechanical efficiency of undertakers.

"Sit, child," muttered Martha, a woman whose grandmother had supposedly served the very first sacrifice three centuries ago.

Anya didn’t move. "I am not a bride. I am a murder victim."

"You are whatever the lake takes," Martha sighed, her voice dry as autumn leaves. She dropped a heavy bundle onto the bench beside Anya. "Strip. Put this on."

Anya looked at the bundle. It was a gown made of stiff, coarse white linen. But as the torchlight hit it, she saw dark, irregular stains along the hem—stains that looked suspiciously like dried mud, salt, and something darker. Something iron-scented.

"What is this?" Anya asked, her breath catching.

"The dress of the brides," another woman whispered, refusing to meet her gaze. "Every girl who went before you wore it."

With trembling fingers, Anya pushed back the folds of the heavy hem. On the inside lining, stitched in fine, faded red thread, were names. Tiny letters embroidered by frantic, terrified hands before they were thrown into the dark.

Mara. Elsin. Joan. Ruth. Katalin.

There were dozens of them. Girls whose families had stopped speaking their names after the water closed above them. Girls who had been told they were saving the village, while the elders divided their meager belongings among themselves.

"They didn't drown to save the valley," Anya whispered, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. "Did they?"

Martha stopped pouring rosewater into the basin. Her hands froze. She didn't answer. She couldn't.

"Dress," Martha rasped, her voice cracking. "And pray. It is all you have left."

Just before midnight, the bells of Oakhaven began to toll. Clang. Clang. Clang.

The entire village followed the procession down the winding dirt path toward the edge of the Black Mere. Hundreds of torches flickered in the darkness, turning the mist rolling off the water into a shimmering wall of gold and orange.

Children walked at the front, carrying baskets of spring flowers, scattering them upon the dark, oily surface of the water. Musicians played a slow, dirge-like wedding march on droning bagpipes and heavy wooden flutes.

At the shoreline sat the ceremonial boat—a flat-bottomed wooden barge carved with serpents' heads.

The elders loaded it with heavy chests.

"Behold!" Elder Morcant shouted, his voice carrying far across the glassy black water. "We offer the tribute of kings! Gold, pearls, and winter grain to appease the master of the deep!"

Anya stood on the shore, stripped of her boots, clad only in the cursed white linen gown that dragged in the mud. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders.

From her vantage point, shackled by her wrists to a heavy iron chain held by two guards, Anya watched closely. She saw what the torchlight didn't quite reach.

Two guards—men from Morcant’s personal guard—were not loading chests of gold. They were lifting heavy wooden lids and sliding sacks out of the chests, replacing them with bags of river stones. The actual gold, pearls, and grain were being quietly loaded onto a mule cart parked behind the willow trees, destined for the elders’ private cellars.

The monster beneath the water received nothing.

Only the girl.

"Step into the boat," Morcant commanded, his voice devoid of human warmth.

Anya didn't flinch. She stepped onto the wooden planks of the barge. The iron chain rattled against the deck.

Elder Morcant stepped close to her, leaning in so the torchlight caught the cruel, smug satisfaction in his eyes.

"Do not struggle," Morcant whispered, his breath smelling of spiced wine. "A quick death is the final kindness we can offer your kind. When you hit the water, hold your breath. It is faster that way."

Anya looked him dead in the eye.

"You think you’ve won," she whispered back. "You think you can keep feeding the lake with blood while you steal our lives. But every stone you painted will turn to ash in your hands."

Morcant’s smile vanished. He signaled the guards.