The Part Where an Afternoon of Shopping Ends in a Sack

The gentle drumming of rain on the shingles served as our alarm clock the following morning. Predictably, another text message illuminated Morgan’s screen, confirming a further delay for our friends. While we were only on the mild fringe of the storm system, experiencing nothing more than a persistent drizzle, I couldn’t begin to fathom the fury they must be enduring at its core.

Refusing to let the gloomy weather sour our spirits, Morgan and I resolved to make an excursion of it. We drove into the quaint town of Penn Yan, where the recent downpour had washed the streets into slick, gleaming ribbons of asphalt.

“That bookstore!” I cried out, impulsively seizing Morgan’s arm and tugging her toward the first one that caught my eye. I lost myself among the shelves for a good twenty minutes, agonizing over the perfect purchase. From there, our day unfolded in a whirlwind of small-town delights: we browsed the local shops, challenged each other to a reckless race at Cayuga Carts, and thoroughly spoiled ourselves with sweet, cold creations from Mack's Ice Cream. By the time we drove back to the cabin, the sun was bleeding into the horizon, casting long shadows as dusk settled around us. Our moods significantly lifted, we surrendered to sleep, holding on to the quiet hope that our friends would finally arrive with the morning light.

Sleep claimed us easily after such a full day, our minds blissfully unaware of the horror that waited for us in the encroaching darkness.

We couldn't have been asleep for more than a few minutes when consciousness was violently ripped from me. A hand, rough and smelling of damp earth, clamped over my mouth, suffocating any sound I tried to make. A scream died in my throat, choked into utter silence as an icy, searing panic flooded my system. I thrashed wildly against my assailant, a desperate, futile struggle against a strength that dwarfed my own. With chilling efficiency, my ankles were bound together, my wrists shackled behind my back with a coarse, biting rope.

They’re taking me, the thought screamed through my mind, a frantic, repeating siren. What are they going to do to me?

My frantic eyes darted around the dim room and landed on a second shape looming over a sleeping Morgan. A chill far colder than the night air settled deep in my bones; she wasn't even restrained. Morgan! My mind shrieked her name. There was a chance, a fleeting opportunity for her to escape, but I couldn't leave her. She had to wake up. I knew what I had to do. I licked my captor's hand. The taste was vile—a foul combination of grime and salt. He recoiled in disgust, his grip loosening as he shoved me away. My head struck the wooden floorboards with a dull, sickening thud.

“She licked my hand!” the man snarled.

Ignoring the throbbing pain, I seized the moment. “WAKE UP, MORGAN! THEY’RE KIDNAPPING US!” I bellowed, my voice raw with terror. “RUN! GET OUT OF HERE!”

Morgan shot upright, her expression a canvas of bewildered shock. The other intruder dropped her just as abruptly, and as her gaze swept the horrifying scene, her eyes widened with dawning terror. “GET AWAY!”

But Morgan wasn't fast enough. Before she could even scramble to her feet, they were on her. They restrained her as they had me, but this time they gagged us both, shoving foul-tasting rags into our mouths. I never stopped fighting, kicking and twisting with every ounce of my being, until a sharp, stinging slap cracked across my face. The searing pain shocked me into a trembling stillness. In the silence that followed, a single, dreadful thought began to echo in the chambers of my mind, a relentless drumbeat of doom: We're going to die. We're going to die. We're going to die.

We were hauled up and tossed into the back of a van like sacks of grain. The interior was a pit of absolute blackness, broken only by the distorted, fleeting flashes of outside lights that swam past the grimy rear window. I fixed my gaze on that tiny portal to the world, my eyes darting, desperately searching for a recognizable sign, a landmark—anything to tell me where we were going. I despised the suffocating gloom. With my hands still bound, I dragged myself across the cold, vibrating metal floor, my fingers probing for any edge, any protrusion that might serve to saw through our bonds. I found nothing. A wave of utter hopelessness washed over me. I’m too young to die, the thought cried out from a place of deep despair.

They drove for what felt like an eternity. Ten minutes or an hour, I couldn't tell; time was measured only by the frantic symphony of my own heart, which must have beaten a billion times before the van finally lurched to a halt. We waited in agonizing silence for a few moments before the doors were wrenched open and we were unceremoniously dumped onto the damp ground. I took a shaky, desperate breath and looked around.

We were in a large, circular clearing carved out of a dense forest. About thirty tall torches had been staked into the earth in a wide ring, their flames clawing at the night sky and casting long, grotesque shadows that danced and writhed. In the very center of the clearing, a massive white pentagram was painted upon the ground, and at its heart stood a stark, unadorned stone table. The air in my lungs turned to ice, my heart seizing in my chest. They’re going to sacrifice us!

They dragged us toward the stone table and forced us onto its frigid surface, our backs pressed together. A low, guttural chant began, the voices of our captors weaving a droning hum that seemed to make the very air vibrate. My chest rose and fell in short, shallow gasps. An image of my family flashed behind my eyes. Mom, Dad, everyone… I love you. Just as a flash of blindingly cold light erupted in my vision, the world dissolved into blackness.

-Morgan-

I'm going to die! The words were the only thought I could form as the brilliant white flare illuminated the clearing. The light intensified, impossibly bright, forcing my eyes shut against the searing pain.

When I dared to open them again, I was not in the afterlife I had braced for. Instead, I found myself in a cavernous, ornate stone chamber, surrounded by what looked like warriors clad in obsidian-black armor.

“Why are there two of you?” The voice that spoke was dark and cold, possessing a terrifying calm. “You were instructed to bring only one.”

Despite the serene delivery, I could feel the rage simmering just beneath the surface of each word, a palpable heat that filled the room with dread. The speaker was a man who appeared to be in his early twenties, with sun-kissed skin, hair as dark and curling as raven feathers, and eyes like chips of coal. He was tall and carried an aura of absolute command. He was the only one in the room dressed differently, his attire of shining silks and rich velvets a stark contrast to the guards' black armor. He reclined upon a throne-like chair that seemed sculpted from gold.

“Your Majesty,” one of the men—the one who had first seized Natalia—stammered, his voice trembling. “There were two girls at the cottage. They were asleep, and we could not determine which had the blue eyes. They are both of the correct age, with brown hair and fair skin. They are nearly identical.”