The first torch was thrown at dusk.
It arced through the heavy, wet air like a falling star, trailing a tail of kerosene smoke before plunging into the base of the pyre. The wood, soaked in accelerant and stacked twenty feet high in the center of the town square, didn’t just catch; it roared.
A pillar of orange flame punched a hole in the Oakhaven Shroud, boiling the fog away and turning the night into a flickering, hellish day.
The crowd cheered.
It was a guttural, primal sound—a roar that matched the fire. Hundreds of people, the “good” citizens of Oakhaven, packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their faces hidden behind the masks of the festival.
I stood on the periphery, near the statue of the Town Founder, my hand deep in my coat pocket, gripping the cold steel of the revolver.
“Show yourself,” I whispered.
The heat was a physical weight, pressing against my face, drying the rain on my skin instantly. The smell was suffocating—burning cedar, gasoline, and the sweet, cloying scent of straw scorching into ash.
The drums began.
Boom. Boom. Boom-tish.
It was the heartbeat of the town, synchronized with the crackling of the timber.
I scanned the crowd, my eyes stinging from the smoke.
They were all monsters tonight. That was the tradition. To burn your burdens, you had to become someone else. You had to hide your face so the sins wouldn’t recognize you when they came crawling back from the ash.
Burlap sacks with jagged eyeholes cut into them. Papier-mâché animal heads with twisted, painted smiles. Masks made of bark and moss.
Every single one of them looked like Elias.
I moved into the press of bodies. I had to find him. He was here. He had to be here. The journal said The Wedding. The fire was the altar.
A hand grabbed my arm.
I spun, the gun halfway out of my pocket before I caught myself.
It was a woman wearing a mask made of white lace—a bride’s veil hardened with glue.
“Burn it,” she screamed over the roar of the fire, shoving a straw doll into my face. “Burn it all!”
She didn’t recognize me. To her, I was just another shadow in the firelight.
I shoved past her, stumbling over the cobblestones.
“Elias!” I screamed, but the name was swallowed by the drums.
The atmosphere was manic. Hysterical. It wasn’t a celebration; it was an exorcism. The town was terrified. They knew there was a killer in the woods. They knew about the bodies in the morgue. But instead of hiding, they had gathered here, drawn to the fire like moths, hoping the flames would purify the rot in the valley.
I saw a shape near the edge of the pyre.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Wearing a heavy canvas coat that looked stained with grease.
He was standing perfectly still, staring into the heart of the fire while the revelers danced around him. He wore a mask made of a brown paper bag, crude eye slits torn into the paper.
The Sandman.
My heart hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
It was him. He was watching the flames, waiting for the moment to step forward. Waiting for the Bride.
I pushed through the crowd. I used my elbows, my shoulders, carving a path through the sweating, cheering mass.
“Move!” I shouted. “Get out of the way!”
I reached the inner circle. The heat was blistering here, singing the hair on my arms.
The figure turned. The paper bag mask crinkled.
He saw me.
He took a step back, raising his hands.
“Elias,” I said, drawing the gun. I didn’t care who saw. I didn’t care about the laws of man or God. “Get on the ground!”
The crowd around us gasped, pulling back, creating a small bubble of silence amidst the roar.
“Get down!” I screamed, aiming at his chest.
The man froze. His hands were shaking.
Slowly, terrified, he reached up and pulled the paper bag off his head.
It wasn’t Elias.
It was Mr. Henderson, the butcher. His face was red, sweating, his eyes wide with terror.
“Elara?” he stammered. “Miss Vance? Don’t shoot! It’s me! It’s just me!”
I stared at him. The gun wavered in my hand.
“I… I thought…”
“Put the gun down!” someone shouted.
A deputy—one of Miller’s men—was pushing through the crowd, his hand on his holster.
I lowered the weapon, shoving it back into my pocket. I backed away, shaking my head.
“He’s not here,” I whispered.
The realization hit me colder than the Oakhaven rain.
I scanned the square again. Hundreds of people. A sea of masks. But none of them had that stillness. None of them had the gravity of the boy in the wall.
If he was planning a wedding… if he was planning to burn the town… he would be here. He would be front and center. He loved the theater of it.
Unless…
My pocket vibrated.
I jumped, nearly dropping the gun.
I pulled out my phone. Not the burner—the burner was dead, battery drained. My real phone.
The screen lit up with a name.
JULIAN.
I slid my thumb across the screen, pressing the phone hard against my ear to block out the drums.
“Julian?” I shouted. “I can’t find him! I nearly shot the butcher!”
“Elara, listen to me,” Julian’s voice was tinny, weak. He sounded groggy, like he was fighting through layers of cotton.
“Are you okay?” I asked, panic spiking. “Did you wake up?”
“I’m awake,” he rasped. “Nurse gave me my phone. Elara, where are the police?”
“They’re here,” I said, looking at the deputy who was glaring at me from across the fire. “They’re all here. Miller has half the force patrolling the square. They’re waiting for Elias to make a move on the Mayor.”
“Half the force?” Julian asked. “What about the hospital?”
I froze.
“What about it?”
“Miller pulled the detail,” Julian said. His voice was gaining strength, sharpened by fear. “There was supposed to be a uniform outside my door. And two in the lobby. But it’s quiet, Elara. It’s too quiet.”
I turned my back to the fire, looking out toward the dark streets beyond the square. The hospital was on the other side of town, perched on the hill like a white tombstone.
“Why would he pull the detail?” I asked.
“Crowd control,” Julian spat. “He’s obsessed with the festival. He thinks if he keeps the tourists safe, he keeps his job. He left the backdoor open.”
The backdoor.
The journal flashed in my mind.
The Bad Prince is in the way. He tries to keep her in a cage.
Elias didn’t hate Julian. Not really. He pitied him. He thought Julian was a barrier. A rival suitor who had stolen the Princess.
And what do you do with a rival at a wedding?
You remove him.
“Julian,” I said, my voice trembling. “Can you walk?”
” barely. My leg is… it’s bad.”
“Get out of the room,” I commanded. “Lock the door. Barricade it.”
“Elara, what is it? Is he there?”
“No,” I said, watching the sparks spiral up into the black sky. “He’s not here. This isn’t the wedding, Julian. This is the reception. The bonfire… it’s just a distraction. It’s a light show to keep everyone looking the wrong way.”
“Then where is he?”
“He’s coming for you,” I said. “He called you the Bad Prince. He thinks you’re keeping me from him.”
“He’s coming here?”
“Yes. To get you out of the way. Or… to bring you to the ceremony.”
A sound came over the line. A soft, distinct click.
Like a door opening.
“Julian?” I screamed.
“Hold on,” Julian whispered. “Someone’s in the hall. Miller said he was sending a patrol car back…”
“It’s not Miller!” I shouted, turning and sprinting away from the fire, shoving masked revelers out of my path. “Julian, hide! It’s him!”
“He’s humming,” Julian said.
The blood in my veins turned to ice.
“He’s humming, Elara. Greensleeves.”
“Run!” I screamed into the phone. “Julian, get up and run!”
“I can’t…”
There was a rustle of movement on the other end. A sharp intake of breath.
And then, a voice I knew. A voice that sounded like gravel and grave dirt.
“Hello, brother.”
The line went dead.
I stopped running. I stood in the middle of Main Street, the firelight casting long, dancing shadows ahead of me. The drums were still beating, a relentless, mocking pulse.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
He had played me. He had played the whole town. He had lit a fire to draw our eyes, and while we watched the straw men burn, he had walked right into the hospital to take the one thing I had left.
I looked at the phone in my hand. The screen was black.
“I’m coming,” I whispered.
I shoved the phone into my pocket and sprinted toward the truck.