The wind tears at Ophelia’s hair, whipping long chestnut strands across her face. Her wrists burn where rough hemp rope bites into her skin, binding her to the ancient stone altar that has drunk the fear of countless girls before her. They had all struggled. Ophelia doesn’t.
There would be no point. Even if she could free herself, where would she run? The cliff top drops away on three sides into nothing but air, rocks, and the churning sea below. Behind her stands her entire village.
Anyone she’s ever known. All of them counting on her to die so that they may live. The white ceremonial dress they’ve draped over her body is thin as spider silk. She feels bare, naked despite being clothed, and she can feel every eye on her.
Dozens. Hundreds, perhaps. The entire village has turned out to watch her being sacrificed to the great dragon. The three village elders stand closest, ancient men draped in ceremonial robes that snap and billow in the wind.
“We thank you, Ophelia,” the eldest’s voice carries across the cliff top. “On this day that marks a tradition established by our fathers and their fathers before them. Through your noble sacrifice, we keep the dragon savages at bay for another year. May your father’s fields run gold with grain.
May your mother’s hearth burn warm through winter. ”
He turns to her. “Speak now your last words upon this earth. ”
The invitation hangs in the air, and shame floods through Ophelia like poison.
Ophelia has no voice to offer them. She opens her mouth anyway—not from hope, but from habit. From the muscle memory of a lifetime spent trying to make herself heard. Her throat works.
Her lips form shapes. But nothing emerges except silence. She closes her mouth slowly. Even now, even at the moment of her death, she cannot do this one simple thing.
Cannot speak. Cannot give them the words they want. The eldest elder shifts his weight, clearing his throat. “Given your condition, we will simply thank you and your family for this sacrifice.
”
*Condition. * As if her voicelessness is something catching. Ophelia searches the crowd, though she knows she shouldn’t. It will only hurt more.
But she cannot help herself. She needs to see them one last time. Her father stands near the front, tall and weathered from years working their small plot of land. She watches him, willing him to look at her.
Just once. Just one moment of connection before the end. Their eyes meet. Something flickers across his face—guilt, perhaps—then he looks away.
Her mother stands beside him, pale and bloodless. Her eyes are dry. No tears for the daughter she’s losing. Just grim acceptance.
They made their choice when Celestine’s name was drawn, and her mother has made her peace with it. Her two brothers stand with arms crossed, young faces tight with something that might pass for sorrow if you didn’t look too closely. But Ophelia has spent her whole life watching people, reading the truths they don’t speak aloud. She sees what lies beneath their carefully composed expressions.
Relief. Pure, shameful relief that it’s her and not Celestine. She doesn’t blame them. She would feel the same if their positions were reversed.
And there is her younger sister. Golden and lovely, even with tears streaming down her perfect face. Celestine is crying. At least someone is crying.
Ophelia doesn’t resent her sister. Celestine didn’t ask for Ophelia to take her place. Ophelia closes her eyes and feels a single tear slip free, immediately stolen by the wind before anyone can see. Then the bright call of trumpets cuts through the howling wind.
Ophelia’s eyes snap open. The crowd parts, confused murmurs rising, as a pure white horse comes cantering through the gap. On it, a figure in gleaming armor. Ophelia’s stomach turns to lead.
Of course. She should have expected this. Tradition demands that royalty bless the sacrifice, thank them for their service before the dragon comes. But as the rider dismounts in a fluid, practiced motion, Ophelia sees immediately that something is different.
The woman—and she must be nobility, perhaps even the princess herself, given her age and the quality of her armor—isn’t wearing court dress. She’s clad in full battle armor, steel plates that catch what little light filters through the storm clouds. Her dark hair is braided tight against her skull. A warrior’s braid, not a courtier’s style.
Her eyes find Ophelia’s briefly, and horror flashes across her face. The woman strides toward the elders, her voice sharp as the wind. “What is this? You are sacrificing a girl to the beast?
”
The eldest elder bows. “Your Highness, it is the tradition. The dragon demands a life each year, and we give it one so that we may live. ”
“There is no other way,” another elder adds.
“We have tried. The dragon is beyond our weapons. ”
The princess’s jaw tightens. She turns to look at Ophelia again.
Ophelia cannot read her expression now—somewhere between fury and pity. “My father offered a gift,” the princess says slowly. “He believes the dragon can be slain. He sent me not to bless this sacrifice, but to end it.
” She draws her sword, and the crowd gasps. “Untie her. ”
The elders stand frozen. “Your Highness, the tradition—”
“I did not come here to watch a girl die for your cowardice.
” The princess’s voice is iron. “There is another way. A weapon that can kill the beast. But I will not do this alone.
”
Chains of shocked silence. Then the eldest elder steps forward, shaking his head. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but the dragon has taken a girl every year for as long as anyone can remember. It is the only way to keep our village alive.
If you wish to fight it, you will do so without our blessing. But the girl stays. ”
The princess does not flinch. She looks at Ophelia, and her gaze softens.
“I am sorry,” she says quietly. “I came to save you, but I cannot do it unless you choose to trust me. Do you want to live? ”
Ophelia cannot answer.
She has no voice. But she nods. It is the most she can do. The princess cuts the ropes binding her.
Ophelia sways, nearly falling, but the princess catches her arm. For a moment, the crowd shrieks and murmurs, but the princess raises her sword and silences them. “The dragon comes when the sun is low,” the princess says. “Take her to the village and keep her safe.
I will face the beast alone if I must. ”
She strides away, mounting her horse. Ophelia watches her, heart pounding, unsure if she is being saved or merely given a few hours more. Ophelia is led back through the village, her wrists raw, her thin dress clinging to her body.
Her mother will not look at her. Her father stands in the doorway of their home, arms crossed, face unreadable. “You have brought shame upon us,” her father says. “The tradition exists so we may live.
You would throw that away? ”
Ophelia opens her mouth. No sound comes. She wants to explain that she did not choose this, that the princess cut her ropes, that she does not know what will happen next.
But she has no voice. She never has. Her sister Celestine appears in the doorway, eyes red. She rushes to Ophelia and throws her arms around her.
“I’m sorry,” Celestine whispers. “I’m so sorry. ”
Ophelia hugs her back. It is the first kindness she has felt in days.
That night, the village gathers in the square. The elders speak of the princess’s madness, of the anger of the gods, of their certain doom. The dragon will come, they say, angrier than ever. They cast glances at Ophelia, and she sees the accusation in their eyes.
She has robbed them of their safety. She has doomed them all. The princess chooses that moment to appear. She stands at the edge of the square, still in full armor, a hand resting on her sword.
“I have no intention of letting the beast take another life,” she says. “I will go to the cliff at dawn. If I fail, the dragon will have its meal. ” She looks at Ophelia.
“But I will not fail. ”
The village falls silent. Ophelia feels a strange warmth in her chest, a flicker of hope she hasn’t allowed herself to feel. But she doesn’t know how to hold onto it.
She cannot speak. She cannot tell the princess she believes in her. She can only stand there, silent, as always. The princess walks away into the night.
Ophelia watches her go, and for the first time, she wonders if maybe she was not meant to die. For the first time, she hopes. But hope is fragile, and the morning comes too quickly. At dawn, the princess rides to the cliff alone.
Ophelia follows, despite the warnings of her family. She cannot speak, but she will witness. If the princess is to die, Ophelia will at least be there. The princess dismounts and turns to look at her.
“You should not be here. ”
Ophelia shakes her head. She points to the sky, where storm clouds are gathering. The dragon will come soon.
The princess reaches into her saddlebag and pulls out a spear, dark with ancient runes. “This is the weapon I spoke of. It was forged to pierce a dragon’s hide. ” She holds it out to Ophelia.
“I do not ask you to understand. But if I fall, take this and run. Do not let them put you on that altar again. ”
Ophelia takes the spear.
It is heavy in her hands, warm as if alive. And then the earth shakes. The dragon lands on the cliff with impossible force, its wings blasting the ground with dust and wind. It is enormous, its scales black as coal, its eyes gleaming like molten gold.
The princess raises her own sword. “I will give you time,” she says. “When I strike, you run. ”
She charges the beast.
Ophelia watches, spear in her hands, heart hammering. The princess is fast, ferocious, her blade singing. The dragon roars, and the sound shakes the very bones of the cliff. And in that moment, Ophelia realizes she still holds the spear.
The runes glow. The weapon hums with a voice she cannot hear, but one she understands with her whole body. She does not run. She lifts the spear and steps forward.
The princess sees her. “No! Run! ”
But Ophelia cannot speak.
She can only move. She runs toward the dragon, spear raised. The creature turns its head, noticing her. It opens its jaws wide.
And Ophelia thrusts the spear into the soft flesh beneath its throat. The world goes white. A roar of pain, a flash of fire. And then silence.
When Ophelia opens her eyes, the dragon is lying still. The princess is staring at her, wide-eyed, breathing hard. “You killed it,” the princess whispers. “You actually killed it.
”
Ophelia looks down at her hands. They are covered in ash, but she is alive. She has no voice to explain, but she doesn’t need to. The princess sheaths her sword, walks to her, and places a hand on her shoulder.
“You have more strength than you’ve ever known. ”
The village is silent when they return. The elders part like water before the princess. No one speaks.
No one knows what to say. The tradition is gone. The dragon is dead. It was Ophelia who killed it.
Her father steps forward. He looks at her, his face shifting with something unfamiliar. Pride, perhaps. “You saved us,” he says, his voice thick.
Ophelia opens her mouth. Still nothing comes. She touches her throat, and for the first time, the silence feels light. Her sister runs to her and hugs her, crying again, but this time for joy.
The village erupts in cheers, but Ophelia does not celebrate. She stands in the center of it all, surrounded by voices and hands and faces she has known her whole life—and she feels the weight of what she has done settle on her shoulders. That night, the princess leaves. She mounts her horse and looks down at Ophelia.
“You are welcome at the royal court, whenever you wish to find me. ”
Ophelia nods. She will remember this. She will decide what comes next.
But for now, she stands on the cliff top where she was meant to die, and she breathes the salt air. She is alive. She is silent.
But she is free.
