Maldegrad was to chaos as Stonedenn was to peace.

A blunder of noises assaulted Paris's ears as the carriage rumbled through the manicured roads of Lycranse Kingdom's capital city. Her eyes were also peppered with towering houses, sickly-sweet-smelling shops, and bright rays of sunlight shining down on the roads like a hazy spotlight. She wrinkled her nose when a whiff of manure and wet fur blasted through the open windows and into the cart. Having grown up surrounded by shit, it's nothing more than a slight discomfort.

It has been a few days since the carriage—rather, a horse-drawn cart with a roof—appeared on her family's doorstep. The coach, a scruffy, pot-bellied man clad in patched tunic and trousers, did nothing but shove into her parents' faces a sheet of paper where the Council's sigil shone. It was a direct summon. Time wasn't something they should be wasting.

With that, Paris was shuffled into the back of the cart, where a stale and daim space awaited her from the door propped open. Her mother handed her a bag of what felt like fruits. "So you wouldn't get hungry," her mother said. Only her pleading eyes made Paris take it from her mother's arms with care. Otherwise, Paris would have left Stonedenn with nothing.

Her father refused to look her in the eye. Diane didn't even bother crawling out of the front door. Paris remembered staring after the windows to Diane's room on the second floor. THe curtains remained drawn with a heartless finality.

She knew it would happen, anyway. Diane wasn't someone who cared about Paris since they were children. At some point, it bothered Paris but over the years, she had grown to accept it. After all, Diane had a reputation to protect. From childhood, Paris's sister reaped all the admiration and the attention. She couldn't risk hanging out with someone like Paris, who seemed to have a penchant for attracting all the wrong sentiments.

Paris didn't recall climbing into the cart, but the next thing she knew, a horse neighed at a sharp crack of a whip and the cart lurched forward. Just like that, the journey began.

Since then, the cart has made at least thirteen stops, the surroundings changing every time Paris made it out of the cart to either relieve herself, eat, or sleep. The coach, whose name she had learned to be Joun, forced her to sleep outside. "If you don't want to fry yourself in your sleep, you'd take it outside," the man had grouched when Paris insisted on locking herself inside the cart.

Since then, Paris resorted to sleeping on whatever surface the cart stopped nearby. Of course, she hadn't done so without her wrist or ankle tied to something immovable such as rocks and trees.

Each passing day made Paris relate more and more to the farm animals in Lance's property. No wonder Matilda had run the moment she could smell the faintest whiff of freedom. Good for that smart heifer.

When the sun was out, Paris did nothing but stare out of the single window guarded by thin curtains. She watched how the terrain changed from Stonedenn's worn cobblestones to a dusty road, a hazy trail through a thinning forest, and finally, back to cobblestones. Underneath her, the cart's wheels clacked and creaked against their axles, each bump in the road sending a painful jolt in Paris's spine and butt.

And when the moon appeared in the sky, Paris's day would end, only to open her eyes to another, albeit how similar they were to each other.

After a long while of rural sights that were as common to Paris as a swirl of cow patty, a wall rose up from the horizon, first a hazy silhouette and finally, a firm establishment. Paris's jaw dropped the first time she saw the expansive brick wall signifying the beginning of Maldegrad. As the cart lumbered through the outlier towns surrounding the city, Paris had been shouted at more than twice to keep her head inside the cart.

But she couldn't. Especially when the cart tore off the main road filled with merchant carts, galloping riders, and cussing mothers rearing their children, and went down a more scenic route east. There, Paris got to see the beige sheet of the walls go the length of the road the cart tackled.

Then, a small outpost—Paris liked to think of it as a meager hole in the wall—crept closer with every creak of the wheels. When they reached it, there were fewer people than there were in what appeared to be the main entrance. Joun's grumbling voice exchanged a few words with the armored guard stationed by the metal gates shielding the opening. Then, with a grunt, the soldier nodded his grated visor at the boys stationed by a mechanism no doubt controlling the gates. With painstaking slowness and grunts of effort, the boys circled the crank enough number of times to raise the sharpened prongs of the gate to the cart's height.

Joun flicked the reins and the cart lumbered through.

Paris was inside Maldegrad now.

It wasn't as different to Stonedenn, especially in the town square. But all similarities with Paris's hometown ended there. As the cart trudged through the busy streets of Maldegrad, she realized the capital city was ten times bigger and about a hundred times busier.

As soon as the cart cleared the errant road leading from the outpost to rejoin the wide path connecting the city entrance, that's when everything began drowning Paris's senses. Apart from the varying smell, ranging from pleasant to absolutely disgusting, wafting in the air, the more time she spent on the roads, the louder the noises became.

Horses neighed. People's clothes rustled and their boots slapped against the cobblestones. Some cursed at each other in overhead banter. Most went on their way carrying all the things Paris thought people could travel with.

And the colors...

Gods, the colors bursting from the cityscape almost made it hard for Paris to tell which was which. When the cart passed by what looked like a merchant's square, filled with mats and caravans of wares and other tradeable things, colors jabbed at Paris's eyes like a jumbling kaleidoscope, blending with each other at the same time staying discrete.

An unsettled feeling blossomed in Paris's gut. All the things she hadn't seen in Stonedenn before now waved at her just a few paces from the cart's window. So close but still quite unreachable.

Such a shame she'd be dead tomorrow after the Elders were done with their idiotic ritual.

Another hour crept by without much effort. Then, a huge building with brick walls painted red rising from the ground in two, sparkling spires whisked by. A single cross was carved from a huge slab of shimmering rock and slotted at the building's facade. Judging from the stark dread uncurling in Paris's gut and the reverent glances and bows she observed the people passing by gave, this place could only be one thing.

The Shrine.

It wouldn't be long now. Joun would yank at the reins. The horse would complain from the sudden change of direction. The cart would approach the Shrine's metal gates, deposit Paris inside, and duck back out before nighttime. Then, the Elders would take Paris, slice her up into teeny tiny pieces, and fling her entrails into whatever dark forces they're keeping at bay in the Woods.

That's how it was going to do.

Except it wasn't. To Paris's confusion, the cart lumbered forward, not once angling towards the Shrine's direction. She crept to the cart's front, towards where she guessed Joun's back was. She raised a hand, knuckles poised to rap against the wooden wall to get the coach's attention. Then, she paused. Of course, she'd get nothing but a garbled hiss about staying put and being a good sacrificial human.

Paris had enough verbal abuse from the man since leaving Stonedenn.

So, she was reduced to a gawking mess as the Shrine became part of the backdrop of the half of Maldegrad disappearing behind Paris and the cart.

Okay, it wasn't the Shrine. Where was the cart taking her then?

She didn't have to wait long to get her answer. Soon, as the carriage crept closer to what felt like the capital's center, Paris caught sight of the real deal.

A stone palace stood atop a short plateau of lush gardens and plump canopies. The road started sloping even miles away from what looked like another set of walls surrounding the castle. The horse pulling the cart started struggling and whining as it trudged up the rise while carrying the weight of at least four people. Poor thing.

Paris's jaw dropped when they sailed passed through the checkpoints in the walls and the palace stumbled into full, unobstructed view. At least five spires rose from the highest roofs from the towers jutting from a solid rectangle of stone. Flags bearing Lycranse's seal and the traditional colors of red, gold, and black waved from these spires. The glass-paned windows lining the walls told Paris how many wings and floors the palace had. She didn't bother counting. All she knew was that there was a lot.

Circling the palace, however, was a huge expanse of trimmed and cultured grass, making the ground without a manicured path look and feel like soft carpets. Fountains, elaborate flower bushes in full bloom, and random benches carved from stone dotted the horizon as far as Paris dared to gawk. The palace's main entrance edged in her periphery as the cart finished rolling up the hill leading to the ground level to its foundation.

Much to Paris's dismay, Joun directed the cart forward, letting the grand entrance slip past them. From the new road, Paris could see another wall and a wider sheet of towns characterized by bunched roofs and dots of green canopies. They must be somewhere behind the palace.

As the road curved eastward, Paris watched how the walls went from gleaming and spotless to dirty and splotchy in a matter of seconds. As the cart rounded the palace, coming to its backside, Paris's eyes widened.

The palace was only clean from the front. Behind it was another story.

Ivies and other flowering vines crept up the walls, spreading cracks every step they took. Some reached at least the windows in the palace's fourth floor. The cobbled roads and the grass also stopped, giving way to muddy ground and a bland sheet of earth. From the silence and grandiose of the front, this place was filled with animal calls, chattering servants, and metal banging against metal.

Paris winced. This wasn't how she envisioned the palace to be.

Finally, the cart made another right at the nearest bend and came in front of the palace's side. Instead of another bout of chaos, an empty lot greeted her. Paris's throat constricted when the cart stopped moving, Joun's halting call forcing the horse to follow. Several footfalls crunching against grass later, the hinges holding the backdoor shut screamed. A wave of light flooded Paris's eyes, not enough to blind her but enough to turn her vision hazy for a second.

Still, she could make out Joun's stout silhouette and hear his grumbles. "Out," he rasped. "Or I'll drag you out by that explosive hair of yours."

Paris drove several scattered curls from her face at having been reminded of her hair. Then, with a clenched jaw, she crawled out of the cart. The moment her boots hit the ground, Joun climbed back to the coach's seat, flicked his reins, and sent his horse and the cart stalking away from her. How she wished she could hitch a ride back to Stonedenn.

Before she could lunge at the backdoor's handle, strong grips circled both of her arms. By instinct, she squirmed and flailed, the words dying in her squeezing throat. They began hauling her back, her boots digging trenches on the otherwise pristine ground, uprooting colonies of grass on the way.

Then, something struck the back of her knees. She fell forward with a cry. Her wrist crunched as they took her weight in her attempt to stop her fall. She whipped back, a new kind of hate gripping her heart. All she saw were glinting silver. It flashed in her periphery. Her cheek exploded in pain.

Something metallic coated her teeth and drowned her tongue with a rusty taste. Why these vermin—

"Call to arms," a loud voice ripped through the yard. "Enter the High Elders of the Lycransian Council."

Paris whirled, despite the throbbing in her cheek and other parts of her body, to a small, nondescript door attached to the palace wall. Then, it opened and out came the famed Elders controlling all of the kingdom.

The first thought in Paris's mind? Pompous brats.

Maybe it was because of how small they first appeared because of the distance between Paris and the palace wall. Then, as the horde of green-robed people crossed the distance and came a few feet closer, her initial thought didn't change. These people sported high-leveled chins, self-assured smirks, and frowns enough to make even the most heartless hoarder spare them a few candies during Idis's Day.

Yeah. Brats. That's what they were.

Another set of entourage fanned out from behind the line the Elders made. It was composed of old men and women, no doubt commissioned priests and priestesses from the Shrine. They wore white robes gilded with gold threads and cinched at the waist with a twine more expensive than Paris's whole life. Each carried a small replica of the cross she had seen on the Shrine's facade. The oldest of them all, a gray-haired, balding man with skin more wrinkled than a rotten pepper, wore a purple sash thrown atop his white robe.

They stopped somewhere to Paris's right. Then, another set broke off from its parent and stood in Paris's left. In short, with the armored guards watching her back, the Elders piercing her being with their stares up front, and these weathered asswipes at her either side, she was surrounded.

Nowhere to run.

Then, as if by the land's nonexistent magic, the priests and priestesses whipped up several woodwind instruments and began playing. A haunting and ethereal sound filled the courtyard. The oldest priest stepped forward and began waving his cross in the air, chanting a prayer of some sort. Paris turned back to the Elders to get the hint from their eyes that they thought of this whole thing as ridiculous as she did. She found nothing of the sort.

These heathens really believed they're keeping something at bay in the Woods by shoving one of their citizens inside it.

Suddenly, a cold rivet splashed down on her. A gasp filtered out of her mouth at the cold that gripped her arms and made her spine seize. What the hell—

"We start the purification," the oldest priest declared to no one. "Strip her of her past sins."

On cue, the soldiers tore forward, their meaty hands grabbing Paris. She froze. Despite the disgust crawling in her gut, twisting it into fraying knots. Despite the revulsion. Despite everything.

She froze.

The sound of fabric ripping joined the cacophony of the background chants the other priests sung or spoke. Cold fingers ran down her body as they tore through her tunic and trousers. When she thought they'd stop there, one of the soldiers drew his sword and began hacking away at Paris's undergarments.

Tears of terror pricked at Paris's eyes. She squirmed but the other soldier gripped her arms and forced her to the ground. The fingers continued attacking what's left of her protection to the outside world, soiling the memory of when Vivian first did to her during their last night together. Paris screamed, wailed. It was to no avail.

She didn't fight. Couldn't find the strength to do so. Just the plain violation in her own will and body drained her of all her bravado. Paris was left there, shivering on the grass while she was handled rather roughly, turned to one side and another.

The last of her undergarments slipped free from her legs, leaving everything exposed. The cold air kissed her bare legs and tickled her nipples. The Elders didn't bat an eye. None turned away. The Shrine people kept chanting.

Then, another torrent of water slammed down Paris's head. She sputtered. Her hair clung in rigid clumps at her back, her arms, and her neck. What was wrong with these people—

"Now, we coat her with the blood of the gods," the oldest priest chanted. More hands grabbed at Paris as she was plastered with endless yards of towels, ultimately drying her body but not her hair. Then, the soldiers retrieved a thin gossamer dress from one of the priestesses. By this time, Paris didn't care anymore as another round of manhandling occured as the soldiers slipped the dress over her head and down her slim body.

When she was all done, she was forced to kneel in front of the Elders. She stared at them with the best hate-filled glare she could muster. Her insides curled and roiled but she couldn't do anything. She wasn't doing anything.

None of the faces registered. All she saw were blobs of green through the haze of red and black dancing in her vision. The ritual and the chants continued, fading into a faint buzz in her ears. Then, for the third time, something wet was dumped on her.

As the liquid cascaded down her arms and dripped on her hair, she noted how different it was. Thicker. Heavier. And most importantly, it was smellier. Like the mornings Paris would go with her father to skin bundrie carcasses. Like how when Paris first got her period.

Rust. Metal.

It was blood.

Paris recoiled, hands flying to wipe it off her face. Her white dress was now tinged crimson. For some reason, the sight drove a pike of fear in her gut. It wasn't like what she experienced before. She whirled to the Elders and the priests in search of answers. What in Idis's name was this?

"And now we paint the vessel with the scent the Woods so dearly loved," the oldest priest said, still waving his cross in Paris's direction. "Let the earthly blood bind her to the demons of the Woods and continue so until the next Red Moon. I declare the appeasement ready. Commence."

With that, the soldiers shoved Paris down. The priests approached, bearing the same twine cinching their robes. Paris felt their hands work knots around her hands placed behind her back. Then, before she could spit at their face, a thick rope whisked over her head. The rope yanked back, forcing Paris's lips apart. Another yelp ripped from her as the rough braids bit at the sides of her mouth.

The Elders parted just in time for another cart to roll into their midst. This time, an old work horse pulled it. From the sadness shrouding its dark, beady eyes, it knew what it was being put into as well. Like Paris, it was going to be an appeasement. Unlike Joun's cart, this one was without a roof. It resembled a wider and flatter wheelbarrow.

"Get in," one of the soldiers hissed in Paris's ear. He forced her upright and shoved her forward.

Paris gritted her teeth and planted her feet on the ground, not moving an inch against the soldier's prodding. She glared at him. The soldier's features resigned.

Her neck flared with pain. She fell back to her knees, her vision blackening. No, no, no. She couldn't pass out now. But the sharp pain in her neck flared into a full-blown monster. It ate at her mind, at the meager breath left in her lungs. Her muscles didn't cooperate. Instead, they dropped her body to the ground with a loud thud.

Panic did nothing to her unresponsive limbs. Paris squirmed and convulsed but nothing happened. She mustn't pass out. No. Stay awake. Stay awake.

Instead, her eyes closed and her consciousness ebbed.

The next time Paris opens her eyes, she'd be in the Woods. After that, she'd be gone with the wind.

Just like that.

No amount of not wanting to die would ever change that because the moment she opened her eyes, she would.

At twenty four, Paris Lerring would die.