Chapter 3

Three days before my eighteenth birthday, I became a stand-in bride.

"Elara, slower," the wedding planner called out. "Seraphina will be weaker. She'll need to take her time."

I was walking down the makeshift aisle in our garden, wearing jeans and an old sweater while everyone else treated this like the real thing. At the end, Marcus waited in his suit, looking everywhere except at me.

Weaker than me? I wanted to laugh. I could barely stand without my vision swimming.

"Good, good. Now Marcus, take her hand—like you mean it!"

His fingers wrapped around mine, cold and mechanical. I felt nothing. No spark, no warmth, just the ghost of what we used to be.

"Now we'll skip the kiss," the planner said cheerfully. "We'll save that for the real ceremony!"

From her wheelchair—which she absolutely didn't need—Seraphina clapped her hands. "You look beautiful, sister! Just like a real bride!"

I glanced at her. Rosy cheeks. Bright eyes. Glowing skin. She looked healthier than she had in months.

Meanwhile, I was about to pass out.

The world tilted. My knees buckled. I stumbled, grabbing for Marcus, but he was too slow. I hit the grass hard, catching myself on my hands.

"Elara!" Mom rushed over, but her face showed annoyance, not concern. "Be careful! You're ruining the rehearsal!"

Not "Are you okay?" Not "Are you hurt?" Just don't ruin Seraphina's special moment.

I pushed myself up, ignoring the dirt on my palms. "I'm fine."

"You need to eat more," Mom said, already turning back to the planner. "You look terrible."

That night, I tried one last time.

We were all in the living room—Mom, Dad, Seraphina, and Marcus. They were going over final wedding details, arguing about whether to serve salmon or chicken. I pulled off my jacket.

"I need you to look at something."

Dad sighed. "Make it quick, Elara."

I held out my left arm. The silver lines had spread from my shoulder all the way to my wrist now, glowing faintly in the lamplight. "These are the sacrifice marks. I've been researching. The real sacrifice bearer—"

"Not this again," Mom interrupted.

"Please!" My voice cracked. "Just look at my shoulder!" I yanked down my collar, showing them the crescent birthmark that was now burning red. "This is the covenant mark! Seraphina doesn't have one!"

Seraphina pulled up her sleeve, showing some random skin irritation. "I have marks too! See?"

"That's not the same—"

"Elara." Marcus's voice was gentle, pitying. "You're scared. I get it. But saying Seraphina isn't the sacrifice—"

"I'm not saying it to be cruel! I'm saying it because it's TRUE!" I was shaking now, desperate. "I'm the one dying! Can't you see that?"

Mom stood up, her face cold. "Enough. I know what this is really about."

"What?"

"You're jealous," she said flatly. "You've always been jealous of your sister. You can't stand that she's getting attention, even now."

The accusation hit me like a physical blow. "That's not—I'm trying to save her! And myself!"

Seraphina burst into tears. "Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you?"

Marcus immediately moved to her side, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "It's okay, sweetheart. She doesn't mean it."

Sweetheart. He called her sweetheart.

Dad's voice was hard as steel. "Go to your room. Now."

"But—"

"NOW!"

I left. Behind me, I heard Mom comforting Seraphina: "Don't listen to her, baby. She's just scared and lashing out."

They thought I was the monster.

In my bathroom that night, I coughed and tasted copper. When I looked down, the sink was splattered with blood. Not a little. A lot.

I turned on the shower and stood under the spray, watching red water circle the drain. The silver markings covered most of my torso now, spreading across my ribs like skeletal fingers.

When I finally looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles under my eyes. Skin so pale it was almost translucent.

Seraphina had looked beautiful at dinner. Laughing. Energetic. Alive.

We'd switched places. I was dying. She was thriving.

I slid down to the bathroom floor, hugging my knees. "Maybe they're right," I whispered to the empty room. "Maybe I'm just crazy."

The voice came then, dark and cold in my mind. "Stop fighting, little one. Accept your fate."

"I know," I whispered back.

Two days left.

I spent my last afternoon writing a letter no one would probably read. My hands shook as I wrote each word.

If you're reading this, I'm gone. I tried to warn you. You wouldn't listen. I don't blame you. I was invisible anyway. Take care of Seraphina. And Marcus—I hope you find happiness, even if it's not with me.

I folded it carefully and left it on my desk. Then I packed away the photos—Marcus and me at prom, family pictures where I was always slightly out of frame, birthday shots where Seraphina was front and center. I turned them all face-down.

Erasing myself before I was erased.

A soft knock interrupted my thoughts. I opened the door to find Dorothy from the shelter, the old woman I'd been volunteering with. She held a small box.

"I had to see you," she said quietly. "I heard about tomorrow."

"The wedding?"

"The sacrifice." Her eyes were sad. "My grandmother worked for your family. I know about the Ashford covenant."

My breath caught. "Then you know it's Seraphina—"

"No, child." She took my hand, her fingers papery and warm. "I see the marks on you."

I almost cried. Someone finally believed me.

She opened the box and pulled out a silver bracelet. "My grandmother gave me this. It belonged to the last sacrifice. She wore it when they took her."

The bracelet was delicate, etched with moon phases. I slipped it on, feeling its weight settle against my wrist.

Dorothy pulled me into a hug. She smelled like lavender and old books. "You're the bravest girl I've ever known."

"I'm not brave," I whispered. "I'm just tired."

"Whatever happens, I'll remember you. The real you." She pulled back, tears in her eyes.

After she left, I sat in the dark for a long time, touching the bracelet.

I woke up on my eighteenth birthday to silence. Outside my window, the garden was already set up—white roses everywhere, champagne glasses glinting in the early light. Beautiful. Perfect. Wrong.

The silver veins glowed across my entire body now, pulsing with each heartbeat. My left shoulder was bleeding where the crescent birthmark had cracked open.

I pulled on a white dress—simple, modest. Appropriate for a sacrifice, even if no one knew that's what it was.

In the mirror, I looked like a ghost. Maybe that's what I'd been all along.

Downstairs, I could hear my family laughing, excited. Preparing for a wedding. They had no idea they were preparing my funeral.

I touched the bracelet Dorothy had given me and took a deep breath.

"Goodbye, Elara," I whispered to my reflection. "You tried your best."

Tonight at midnight, when the full moon rose, someone would die on that altar.

Just not the person they expected.