The smell of pot stew filled Paris's dreams. She opened her eyes to find herself staring up at the planks holding up the ceiling of her room. Her back was flat against the rigid mattress and the blanket tangled around her legs. She had twisted and turned in her sleep too much once more.

Nevermind that. Someone was cooking Paris's favorite meal downstairs. The furnace was probably fired up, contributing to the house heating up even though it's still early in the morning. Then, it clicked. Of course.

It's her birthday.

One glance at the date dial atop her desk pushed underneath the single window in her room told her enough. The prongs sticking out of the rounded, metal base had landed on the symbols representing the month and day of her birth.

Dread coated Paris's tongue and roiled in her gut. Birthdays weren't her favorite days for the sole reason of people always making a fuss over the smallest of things. The whole day was likely going to be spent picking the dress with the least rips in it, tugging her curly hair in a rigid updo which only worked for straight-haired girls, and slotting her into the Shrine to pay respects to the gods for giving her another year to live.

Paris wanted none of that.

Like all of her past birthdays, the clinks and clanks of pots, ladles, and porcelain plates floated from the kitchen, which lay directly under Paris's room. A groan tore off her lips. Running a hand against her face, she edged out of the bed. Her bare feet slapped the wooden floorboards as she swung her legs off.

When she got up, the boards creaked. It wouldn't take long before dust and other miscellaneous debris shook and rained down below. Bad idea to put Paris in a room above the kitchen. But as usual, Diane wouldn't agree to switching rooms. That girl loved the wide windows slotted in her room.

"It works for you too," Diane's voice and reasoning rang in Paris's ear as she trudged towards her own window. "You hate the sun."

A frown weighed down on the corners of Paris's lips. It wasn't that she hated the light of the sun. She just didn't want to subject herself to a slow toasting underneath its harsh rays.

She approached her desk and snatched the braided twine she was using to tie her hair at the base of her nape for about a week now. It's a miracle it still hasn't snapped into two from the strain of holding back her violent curls. A stream of sunlight speared straight from the glass panes lining her window and slapped her eyeballs. She recoiled on instinct, black spots creeping into her vision. She clicked her tongue as she blinked furiously.

Scratch that. Paris hated the sun.

She turned away from the window, raising her arms to grasp her hair in a bunch. Then, with deft fingers, she tied her hair back. With a set of measured strides, she ducked out of her room and tackled the stairs leading to the dining room. Frames bearing faded portraits of faces Paris wasn't familiar with lined the wall where the stairs were slotted against. The weight her bare feet slapped against the wooden boards induced painful creaks ringing in the air.

A lyrical ensemble of creaks later, she came across the leather slippers lining the last stair. Locating hers leftmost of the line, she slipped her feet inside. Then, she turned to the bustle of activity happening on their house's ground floor.

Diane, dressed to the nines so early in the day with her best crimson dress, fluttered from the dining table to the living room, a bouquet of plump tulips slung over her arms. The silk ribbon holding the upper half of her hair up swayed with the breeze brought about by each of her movements. Unlike Paris's rigid curls, Diane ended up with wavy, dark locks. That's what Paris's hair could look like if it was flattened out with a coal-iron.

Maybe.

"Di, come here and help me get the roast from the oven!" her mother's voice bled from the kitchen, stealing Paris's attention from the tulips gleaming from a half-filled, transparent vase waving at her from the living room's centerpiece. Her sister flinched and set the bouquet down to trudge to the kitchen.

Paris was about to take over Diane's job of slotting the flowery stalks into the water source when the back door leading to their stocks flung open. In sauntered her father, a bloody carcass of a forest rodent clutched inside his hand. The sight should have frightened Paris or made her gag but she stared at the lines of red coating her father's nails and forearms and said, "Dad, you killed a bundrie again. I told you to stop doing it on my birthday two years ago."

Her father stopped by the cupboards separating the dining room and the living room. "But I like bundrie meat," he said, almost like a petulant child more than a grown man. Was that the only reason they're celebrating Paris's birthday? Just so they could get an excuse to enjoy what they want? Was this even about Paris, when she's the one getting older today? "Trust me, you'll love it sooner or later. Why wouldn't you like it? It's good!"

It's also as tough and tasteless as a band of dried leather. Paris wouldn't ever like it.

"Lucian! Stop dripping blood around the house!" her mother's shriek from the kitchen carried out towards the living room, and no doubt, across the neighbors as well. Her father flinched at the mention of his name, snapping into action. The bundrie carcass disappeared even in Paris's periphery. Well, there went her birthday wishes.

A muttered apology rang from the kitchen, drowned out by her mother's rants. "Nobody in this house scrubs those boards like the Elders are coming," she yakked on. "It's just me! Just me, I tell the heathens!"

Paris rolled her eyes as she took the topmost stalk from the pile resting on the low table in the center of the living room. A shadow fell over her, forcing her to look up. Diane's body was shrouded by the sunlight, making her a hulking shadow in Paris's vision.

"Mom's calling you in the kitchen," her sister said, snatching the last stalk from Paris's hand. "Help set the table."

WIthout a word, Paris straightened and tackled the distance separating the living room and the kitchen, coming under the nondescript arch marking the beginning of the house's back lot. She found her mother lugging the heavier porcelain plates from the drawers underneath the sink. When she spotted Paris coming from the doorway, she breathed a sigh of relief.

"Paris, my dear. Be a darling and carry these to the table," her mother said. Paris followed, grunting with effort as her mother transferred the weight of the plates into her arms. Damn, what were these made of? Elephant bones? As she exited the kitchen, she could hear the resumption of her mother's bustling in the stove, fanning the coal embers to strengthen the heat.

Paris wasn't a cook, far from it. It always amazed her how one could whip something delicious from a bunch of lifeless vegetables and meat.

Soon, her mother's voice disturbed the rest of the house once more, shouting, "Breakfast!"

Like clockwork, everyone flitted to the dining table where the utensils, plates, and sheets of napkins Paris had set earlier waited for them. Added to the haze were pots of soup, Paris's favorite stew, and some other dish she hadn't seen or tasted before. Plates of bread slices, smoked sausages, and fried eggs joined the melee, making Paris's stomach growl in anticipation.

Somewhere at the end of the table, where her father perched, sat the pot of bundrie stew, characterized by its stark orange sauce and bits of peas and diced carrots bobbing on the surface. Paris's anticipation turned into disgust for that one dish. Ugh. She'd never understand her father's tastes.

Paris circled her fingers around her silverware, her mouth already filling with saliva. She was about to spear a sausage when her mother's hand blocked her trajectory. "Let's thank the High Ones first for Paris's special day."

Paris resisted rolling her eyes in front of her mother. She didn't want to be labeled as a harbinger of bad luck in the house. Apparently, it was taboo to roll one's eyes in front of the food.

Instead, she hunkered to herself, ducking her head down and putting her hands together in a humble position. She didn't believe in the High Ones but she didn't dare bring the topic of belief and religion when her mother had outdone herself with the feast once more.

"We gather today in the High Ones' presence to thank ye for giving Paris Lerring a new year in her life," her mother chanted, her words modulated and full of respect. For creatures Paris had never once seen manifest in their daily life, her mother surely treated them with the reverence she should have given to other people. "Grant us the chance to enjoy this meal and celebrate Paris's life. This we appoint to heaven, in the names of the High Ones."

Her mother raised her head. "Marem," she said.

By tradition, the rest of them, Paris included, answered, "Marem."

Then, the feast officially started. For once, the clink of silverware against porcelain was a delight in Paris's ears as she shoved more sausages into her mouth. The smoky flavor coated her tongue and the salty flair of the processed meat brought a satisfaction rivaling that of Vivian's. Paris had to pack some for her later.

"While Diane clears the dishes, get ready to go to the Shrine," her mother turned to Paris with a glance that told her she had no place to argue. "And please, do something about that monstrous hair of yours."

Paris snorted. It wasn't like it was her parents' fault she turned out this way, was it?

"I'm not going to the Shrine," Paris blurted. The clinks stopped as her family paused as one. They might have had the same brains as well.

A horrified look twisted her mother's features. "But you must," she insisted. "You'd need to go there anyway soon."

Paris shook her head. "I'm not arguing. I'm not going."

Her mother slammed her hand on the table, making plates and Paris jump. "You will go to the Shrine," she hissed. "The Elders require it."

Paris scoffed. "Elders? Really?" she glanced at Diane to see if her sister was finding this as ridiculous as she did. Diane's visage was arranged in a passive stare, betraying none of her thoughts. Tch. Sucks. "Since when did the Elders care about my Shrine attendance? We're not in Maldegrad, last I checked."

Those Elders could go and suck their own cocks in Lycranse's capital city. Don't they dare prod a stick into Paris's life.

"They would care because you're the next appeasement," her mother said. Flat. Final.

Paris froze. "What do you mean?" she breathed past the dread returning into her gut. She must have misheard something.

Her mother's stare was both sad and hard. "You're the next appeasement, Paris," she revealed, confirming the fact that, no, Paris hadn't begun imagining things. "The Elders wanted you to travel to Maldegrad at the earliest time possible but we managed to buy time until your birthday at least."

About a dozen emotions roiled in Paris's heart. First came the flashes of denial, followed by a flare of fear. But only one emotion floated stronger above the rest.

Anger.

"How long have you known about this?" Paris's tone dropped into a quiet seethe. Her fingers clenched around the handles of her silverware so hard her knuckles turned white and her wrist hurt. The sausages she shoved down her throat threatened to crawl back out.

Always the last to know. Paris had been alive for a considerable amount of time but it was still the case with her. This time, the reason for her late notice might have been deliberate.

When no one answered, Paris copied her mother and slammed her hands on the table. "How long have you known this?!" she demanded.

"Since you were born," her mother's quiet voice was a weak follow-up after Paris's outburst. "You were born under the second waning moon of the month. You know how those children are."

Paris's nostrils flared just in time with the growing frustration squeezing her throat shut. "So you choose to believe that shit over your daughter's life?" she said. "I don't understand you. I don't understand this family at all. You're all a bunch of hay-brained fools. I don't know why I stuck with you all these years."

Then, something snapped in Paris as the realization settled in her bones. She breathed an incredulous sigh. "So that's why I was never treated more than temporary furniture in this house, huh?" she drove the escaped curls away from her forehead. The tears were close but she swore she wouldn't cry in front of these people. "You all knew I was going to be sacrificed to the Woods so you never saw me as a child," she cast a look at Diane. "As a sister."

Paris pushed herself away from the table and stood. "Who am I to you, really?" she sniffed, the corners of her eyes prickling with tears. Her voice cracked. "Who are you, people?"

Without waiting for other half-baked excuses her family would throw at her, Paris turned and trudged out the house.

The next appeasement, her ass. Fuck that.

She didn't look back as the house she grew up in, a hollow building of brick and shingles, faded into the grand background of civilization behind her. Her feet walked, her legs sauntered. Forward. Taking her to the edge of Stonedenn, closer to the Woods she's supposed to satisfy. She scoffed as she neared the twisted branches so much so she could hear the faint rustling of leaves and the eerie hisses emanating from the dark shadows.

She leveled her gaze at the haze of low-lying fog and branches. If the Woods was that hungry for her soul, then, let it take her right here, right now.

With red-rimmed eyes and a heaving chest, Paris dared the darkness.

If you're as real as these fools cooked up to be, then take me.

Take me now.