Chapter Three - Red Thread

(Adelaide)

“Why is that already on you?” Adelaide demanded.

Lyra startled, nearly dropping her spoon. “Mama said we should be prepared.”

Prepared. Right. Prepared to be paraded. Prepared to be measured by a myth. Prepared to run. The words clanged around in Adelaide’s skull like pots knocked together—too loud, too hollow.

Adelaide crossed the room in three strides. “Take it off.”

Lyra’s eyes widened. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Adelaide snapped, and reached for the thread.

Their mother’s voice cut through the air like a blade. “Stop.”

Adelaide froze.

Mother stood near the stove, ladle in hand, her expression carved from stone. “It stays.”

Adelaide’s jaw clenched. “She’s not going.”

“No one chooses who goes,” her mother said. “Not us. Not the Elders.”

“That’s not true,” Adelaide said bitterly. “Everyone chooses. Every pointed glance. Every whispered word. They’ve already picked their list in their heads.”

Lyra shrank into her seat, shoulders curling inward, trying to take up less space. It twisted something deep in Adelaide’s chest.

She softened her voice. “Lyra… You don’t have to make it easy for them.”

Lyra swallowed hard. “Please don’t fight today. Not today.”

Mother set the ladle down. “She is right, Adelaide. We need peace this morning. Just for a few hours.”

Peace. How was peace possible when the air itself felt stretched thin, vibrating with dread? Her own nerves hummed like plucked wire, ready to snap with the slightest touch.

Adelaide sat, the chair scraping the floor louder than intended. Lyra flinched. Mother’s lips tightened. Adelaide forced herself still.

Lyra pushed the porridge toward her. “Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

“For what?” Adelaide muttered. “Watching the Elders read names?”

Lyra’s eyes flicked down. “For whatever comes.”

Adelaide hated the way that sounded. As if Lyra already knew the shape of the day: the bell, the names, the forest swallowing someone whole.

Silence settled, broken only by the occasional scrape of a spoon. Outside, the village was stirring—the grind of a wagon wheel, the bark of a tied-up dog, voices murmuring low, solemn. An entire community bracing for something ancient and terrible.

When the church bell tolled, deep and echoing, Mother stood abruptly. “It’s time.”

Lyra’s hand trembled as she rose. Adelaide’s heart hammered against her ribs. Not yet, she told herself. Not until they read her name. Not until she stepped forward. Not until the ink of this moment dried on whatever ledger the Devil kept.

The walk to the Chapel Square felt longer than it ever had. Villagers filled the narrow dirt paths, all moving in the same direction, dressed in muted tones. The air was colder here, sinking into skin like damp fingers. Frost clung to the eaves of roofs and the grass lining the road. Each breath Adelaide drew burned a little, misting white in front of her like pieces of her spirit escaping one exhale at a time.

Whispers followed them.

“That’s Mara’s eldest…”

“The sharp-eyed one.”

“He’ll like her spirit. They always do.”

“No—he chooses the quiet ones.”

“Not always.”

“God help whoever he takes.”

Adelaide kept her chin high, even as her palms sweated. The urge to bare her teeth at them rose sharp and hot, but she swallowed it, letting it sit like a stone in her gut instead.

Lyra clung to her mother’s hand, her own thin legs shaking. Adelaide edged closer, protective instinct coiling tight.

The Chapel Square was already full. The stone platform had been draped in black cloth. Sixteen wooden markers stood in a row—symbols of the sixteen destined to run. A brazier burned at the centre, flames bright in the pale morning. Greasy smoke twisted upward, carrying the bitter tang of old fat and charred herbs, the smell worming its way into Adelaide’s clothes, her hair, her lungs.

The Elders waited at the front, grey-robed, hollow-eyed. And behind them, carved into the chapel’s ancient stone façade, the sigil glared back at them: a sun split in half, horns curling from its broken edges. Yesterday it had been only on the well.

Today, it watched from everywhere.

Adelaide felt it like a hand closing around her throat. For a heartbeat, she could have sworn the carved lines darkened, as if ink—no, blood—had seeped into the grooves overnight. She blinked hard, but the impression clung.

Lyra whimpered softly beside her. “I don’t want to go up there…”

“You won’t,” Adelaide said immediately. “Do you hear me? You won’t.”

Her mother shot her a warning look, but said nothing.

A hush fell as Elder Thane stepped forward, unrolling the long, brittle parchment. His voice, thin and sharp as a reed flute, cut through the cold air.

“By decree of the Pact, by the Seal of Fire, by the bargain struck a thousand years ago—sixteen names shall be offered.”

Lyra’s breath hitched. Mother’s fingers tightened around hers.

Adelaide stood very still, muscles taut as wire. The words of the Pact were old and worn smooth from repetition, but today they crawled over her skin like living things. She’d heard them once before, a decade ago, when she was a child, and yet this was the first time they felt aimed like an arrow.

“First,” the Elder said, “Mira Ellwood.”

A girl near the front burst into sobs as her parents gripped her arms.

“Second. Talie Harrow.”

“Third. Rowan Vess.”

Each name was a hammer. Each reaction—a flinch, or a cry, or resigned stillness—drove the point deeper. The square seemed to pulse with each syllable, the air thickening, as if the world itself were taking tally.

“Fourth,” Thane read, “Lyra—”

“No.”

The word tore from Adelaide before she realised she’d spoken. Every head snapped toward her. Lyra went rigid, her eyes filling instantly. Their mother’s face crumpled.

Elder Thane blinked. “Lyra Harrow—”

“I said no,” Adelaide repeated, stepping forward. “I invoke the Exchange Rite.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd. A few people crossed themselves. Others stared, wide-eyed, as if she’d sprouted horns herself. Somewhere near the back, a woman muttered a prayer under her breath, the words tripping over one another in her haste.

Thane’s face tightened. “That is an ancient rite seldom honoured. Blood must match blood. Will matched by will.”

“Then it fits perfectly,” Adelaide said. She yanked her sleeve up and sliced her palm with the small knife strapped beneath her belt. A thin line of red welled instantly. The sting was sharp, clean; the cold air bit at the open skin, and the blood looked too bright against the washed-out day, a small defiant bloom of colour.

Behind her, Lyra cried out. “Addie, no—no, please—”

Adelaide ignored her and held her bleeding palm forward. “I take her place.”

Elder Thane regarded her with a strange blend of dread and fascination. “You do not understand what you are offering.”

“I do,” Adelaide said. “Better me than her.”

Mother’s hand flew to her mouth. Lyra sobbed harder. A few villagers murmured.

Elder Thane’s gaze swept the crowd, then the other Elders. Finally, he sighed, ancient bones shifting as he raised his hand.

“So be it. The Devil cares not which girl runs—only that sixteen run. Adelaide Harrow, you stand in Lyra’s stead.”

A heavy silence fell. Even the fire in the brazier seemed to hush, flames drawing in on themselves. The square had the feel of a held breath, waiting to see if the world would crack.

Lyra collapsed into their mother’s arms, trembling violently. Mother stared at Adelaide with a mix of terror, pride, and heartbreak, as if she couldn’t decide whether to scold her or pull her into a crushing embrace.

Adelaide swallowed hard, the cold wind burning her lungs.

The Elder dipped a strip of red thread in the brazier flame until it smoked. Then he tied it around Adelaide’s wrist—tight, almost cruel. The mark of a runner. The mark of prey.

The moment the knot cinched, Adelaide felt it like a shiver racing up her spine. The world seemed to tilt, shadows lengthening for just a breath, as if something unseen had turned its head toward her. Watching. Recognizing. Choosing. A low, soundless roar filled her ears, like distant waves crashing against cliffs she had never seen, drowning out the square for a heartbeat before fading.

When the Elder stepped back, the crowd whispered among themselves.

“She offered—willingly?”

“The Devil will enjoy that.”

“Brave girl… foolish girl.”

“May the gods shield her.”

Adelaide turned to Lyra.

Her sister reached out, fingers shaking so hard she could barely hold her wrist. “Adelaide,” she whispered, voice cracking, “why—why did you—?”

Adelaide stepped forward and snatched up her sister's wrist. Using the same knife, now stained with her blood, she cut the red tie from her sister's wrist.

“Because he’s not getting you,” Adelaide said fiercely. “No matter what happens.” The piece of red wool hit the ground between them, like a line in the sand drawn and ready for battle. The thread landed on a thin crust of frost and steamed faintly where her blood had touched it, as if the ground itself acknowledged the bargain she’d made.

Lyra sobbed and threw her arms around her. Adelaide held her tightly, letting the warmth of her sister’s trembling body anchor her, even as dread churned her stomach.

She had done it. There was no turning back now.

The thread around her wrist seemed to pulse with heat. As if somewhere far beyond the veil, something ancient and hungry had just smiled. In the back of her mind, unbidden, rose an image she’d never seen but somehow knew: a figure in the dark woods lifting its head, the echo of a grin cutting through shadow like a blade of moonlight. And for the first time, Adelaide understood that this was not just a tale told to frighten children. This was a summons.