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

The silence that followed was heavier than the water at the bottom of the Mere.

Elder Morcant stumbled backward, tripping over a basket of discarded spring flowers. His face was a mask of sheer, unmasked panic. He looked around wildly for his guards, but the guards were already kneeling in the dirt, their pikes discarded, pressing their foreheads into the wet grass.

"She—she is possessed!" Morcant screeched, his voice cracking with hysteria as he pointed a trembling finger at Anya. "A demon has risen from the deep! She has bewitched the waters! Kill her! Someone kill her!"

Not a single person moved.

The baker, whose extra silver Morcant had pocketed just last week, kept his head pressed firmly against the dirt. The weaver, whose daughters were now of age, stared at the ground with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Anya took a slow step forward. The dark crystal crown on her brow pulsed in time with her heartbeat, sending ripples of visible, shimmering energy through the air around her.

"For three hundred years," Anya said, her voice dropping to a low, carrying hum that vibrated in every person's chest, "you have lied to this village. You told us the lake was hungry. You told us blood was the only price for peace."

She turned her gaze to the gathered crowd, her voice softening just enough to carry profound, piercing sorrow.

"My mother died owing three sacks of flour to men who sat in warm halls while she worked her fingers to the bone. Livia drew a white stone because her father carved it in secret. And dozens of girls—Mara, Elsin, Joan, Ruth—were thrown into the dark not to save Oakhaven, but to feed your greed and hide your failures."

A murmur broke out through the crowd—a low, dangerous sound, like wind rustling through dry brush before a forest fire.

Morcant scrambled backward on his hands and knees, clawing at the mud. "It's a lie! The pact requires it! Without the sacrifices, the storm will drown us all!"

"There is a storm," Anya agreed quietly. "A storm locked away by a king who sacrificed his own freedom to save your ancestors. While he suffered in the dark for three centuries, you built your comfort upon the bones of innocent girls."

Anya raised her hand.

The water behind her churned. A massive, towering wave rose from the surface of the Black Mere, curling over the shoreline like a giant claw of crystal-clear water, poised directly above the village.

The entire crowd let out a collective gasp of terror, bracing for the end.

But the wave didn't crash. It hung suspended in the air, frozen by the will of the crown.

"The pact is broken," Anya declared, her eyes blazing with electric light. "The gates are open. The king is free."

She looked down at Morcant, who was now weeping openly in the dirt, clutching his ornate silver robes around himself like a child.

"You wanted the lake, Morcant," Anya whispered. "Let's see how much of it you can hold."

With a flick of her wrist, the suspended wave surged forward—not crashing down to destroy the village, but sweeping directly over the elders' quarter. A massive torrent of water rushed through the center of Oakhaven, smashing open the heavy wooden doors of Morcant’s cellar.

Out poured dozens of heavy wooden chests.

They slammed into the square, their lids bursting open upon the cobblestones.

Hundreds of gold coins, heavy silver bars, pearls, and sacks of stolen winter grain spilled out across the mud, rolling into the feet of the astonished villagers.