Chapter Six - The Devil Has Arrived

(Adelaide)

Adelaide stared at Thane with open contempt. He didn’t even glance at her. She wondered if that was deliberate—if ignoring her would make it easier later, when people spoke of her in the past tense.

“Tradition speaks,” he continued. “The Devil will appear when the moon crests silver at its highest point. He will take form from shadow and flame. He will call forth the hunt.”

A tremor rippled through the girls to her left. Someone whimpered quietly.

Thane’s voice deepened. “You will run. Not into the village, but into the forest. This is the sacred boundary. Do not attempt to cross back until dawn. He cannot leave the woods while the hunt is underway.”

Adelaide’s brows knit. So that’s the rule. He does not hunt inside the village—only in the wilderness. Only where no one can hear you scream. The thought made bile rise in her throat. It also sparked something coldly calculating; boundaries could be bent, edges tested. Even monsters had rules.

Thane continued, “If you survive until sunrise, he may not claim you. You will be freed. Blessed. Untouched.”

Blessed. Again with that cursed word. Adelaide could taste the lie.

Thane’s gaze swept over the girls, his voice lowering. “But he will choose one. He always chooses one.”

A chill snaked down her spine. Not fear—anticipation. Rage. Defiance. The heat in her chest grew hotter.

He will choose one. And she already knew who it would be.

Because she hadn’t come here to look sweet. She hadn’t come here to look pure. She had come here with fire in her eyes and fury in her blood.

And creatures like him always noticed fire. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a half-remembered line from a childhood tale surfaced: Fire calls to fire.

The girls were separated into two rows. Attendants rechecked their white dresses, smoothing fabric, adjusting hems, brushing loose strands of hair from their faces.

Adelaide pushed one away when she reached for her. “Don’t.”

The attendant froze. “Child, you must—”

“I’m not a child. And I won’t be prettied up for him.”

She shrugged off the woman’s hands, glare razor sharp.

“I’m going as I am.”

The attendant’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Then…may the gods protect you.”

Adelaide nearly laughed. “The gods haven’t protected anyone tonight.” If they were watching at all, they were doing it from a safe distance, like the villagers.

She caught the way other girls were shaking, tears clinging to their lashes, breaths hitching. A few clasped their hands together, knuckles white, whispering frantic prayers.

Adelaide didn’t pray. She didn’t beg. She didn’t tremble. She stood, she breathed, she burned. Her pulse thundered in her ears, a steady drum that felt like its own kind of spell.

A thin girl beside her—Calia—leaned in. Her voice was barely a breath. “Are you…are you scared?”

Adelaide turned her head slowly. Calia’s green eyes were shimmering with tears, lower lip trembling. She looked like a frightened doe in a snare.

Adelaide wanted to lie, but couldn’t. “I’m angry,” she said simply.

Calia blinked. “Why? We’re going to die.”

Adelaide stared into the dark trees. “Not all of us.”

“But one of us will,” Calia whispered.

Adelaide felt the knot in her stomach tighten. “He won’t take you.”

Calia’s brows furrowed. “How do you know?”

“Because I won’t let him.”

Calia’s breath hitched. “Adelaide…you can’t stop him.”

“No. But I can choose where I run. And how long I last.” Her voice hardened. “And if he wants someone so badly…he can damn well come get me.”

Calia stared at her with something like awe. Or pity. “You’re braver than I am.”

“I’m more foolish,” Adelaide corrected.

Their eyes met briefly. A fragile bond formed in that moment—a shared fear, a shared fate. If they both lived, Adelaide suspected she would never be able to look at Calia without remembering this breathless, waiting dark.

“Stay near the others,” Adelaide murmured. “Don’t run alone. Don’t run straight. Keep changing direction. And if you hear him behind you—don’t look back. Looking back slows you.”

Calia nodded shakily. Adelaide didn’t say the rest—that looking back could be the last decision she ever made.

Villagers filled the clearing behind the boundary line, lanterns casting shifting halos of light. Mothers cried into their husbands’ shoulders. Fathers stood rigid, stoic, jaws clenched too tightly. Younger siblings huddled together, eyes wide.

Her mother was there. Lyra beside her. Their faces were streaked with tears. This time, Adelaide didn’t look away.

Her mother pressed two fingers to her lips, then held out her hand to Adelaide, trembling. Lyra did the same, though her fingers shook violently. A gesture of love. Of protection. Of goodbye.

Adelaide lifted her chin but didn’t raise her hand. She couldn’t—not without fracturing. Instead, she mouthed, “I’ll come back.” Lyra burst into fresh sobs.

Adelaide swallowed the ache rising in her throat. It tasted like smoke and salt and something jagged she couldn’t fully swallow down.

As the last attendants stepped back, the torches flickered violently. A gust of wind shot through the clearing, cold and sudden, bending the flames sideways. The hair along Adelaide’s arms lifted.

Before anyone could speak, Elder Thane raised both hands sharply.

“Villagers,” he called, voice booming across the clearing, “you must retreat beyond the boundary. This is the final moment you may stand beside the Chosen.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd—fear, grief, unwillingness—but the guards moved forward, urging families back. Mothers wrapped their arms around their children and hurried them away. Fathers gripped lanterns like shields. The older villagers backed away quickly, as if they knew lingering too long might tempt fate.

Lyra watched Adelaide the entire time, tears spilling silently down her cheeks as her mother pulled her backward. Adelaide’s stomach clenched at the sight, but she didn’t move. She couldn’t. She wasn’t allowed to take even one step toward them. The invisible line between them felt like a wall of glass—so thin she could almost press her hand through it, so unbreakable she knew she never would.

When the villagers had retreated well past the boundary line, Elder Thane lowered his hands.

His voice softened—still carrying, but thick with solemnity.

“Daughters of Fire’s Peak… this is farewell. May your courage blaze brighter than your fear. May dawn find you alive.”

A few girls whimpered. One began to cry.

Adelaide stared straight ahead, jaw tight.

The Elder bowed his head deeply—an honour given to no one else in their cursed village. Then he whispered, “May the gods walk beside you.” The villagers echoed it like a broken prayer.

The forest went silent. Completely silent.

No leaves rustling. No branches creaking. No insects chirping.

Nothing.

A stillness so absolute it felt like the world had paused. Even the torches seemed to quiet, their crackling dimming to a low hiss. It was as if sound itself had been pulled back, leaving only the thud of hearts and the thin rasp of breath.

Even the villagers sensed it. Whispers died. Children hid behind legs. Mothers clutched charms. The Elders stiffened, eyes widening subtly.

The moon climbed higher, shedding a thin beam of silver light across the treetops. It painted the upper branches in a ghostly sheen, leaving the ground in a deeper shadow, as if the sky itself had decided whose side it was on.

Adelaide’s heart thudded once—hard and jarring—like it was trying to warn her.

He’s here.

The air grew heavier. Denser. Charged. Her skin tingled, gooseflesh racing up her arms and across the back of her neck, as though invisible fingers had brushed over her.

Something ancient was pressing against the veil, pushing through. A tremor of energy rippled across the ground, so faint Adelaide wondered if she imagined it. But the other girls stiffened, stepping closer together, eyes darting.

The villagers didn’t breathe.

Then— A distant, low sound rolled through the forest.

Not a roar. Not a growl. Something deeper. Something wrong.

A sound that was not made by any mortal creature. It vibrated in her chest cavity, loosening something in her spine, and for a heartbeat she felt unmoored, as if the earth under her feet had shifted sideways.

Calia gripped Adelaide’s arm. “Wh-what was—”

Another sound answered, closer this time. A rumble that vibrated through the earth beneath their feet.

Adelaide’s breath quickened. Her blood felt electric. The tiny cut on her palm burned, the skin around it tightening, as if reacting to a call only it could hear.

A voice—cold, smooth, echoing through the trees—whispered something she couldn’t understand.

Leaves rustled in a shivering cascade. Branches swayed, though no wind touched them. The darkness between the trunks thickened, gathering itself, lines of shadow sliding together like spilled ink drawn to a single point.

Something moved in the dark. Something large. Something fluid. Something powerful.

A silhouette stepped out from between the pines. A shadow at first—tall, impossibly tall. Then two eyes opened in the darkness. Burning. Molten. A shade between gold and fire. They cut through the night like twin brands, sharpening everything around them; every breath, every tremor, every heartbeat in the clearing seemed to rearrange itself around that gaze.

The Devil had arrived.

And every instinct Adelaide possessed screamed one truth:

He’s looking at me.