Daniel didn't visit me today. 

I use my writing stone to scratch another white mark on the wall. 4,538 becomes 4,539. 

A loud bang echoes through the walls, but I don't bother to stand up. I know from the weight and clack of the footsteps that it's Hensen. 

His round face appears on the other side of the bars, and he bends down to push a plate of brown mush under them. Hensen has a count of his own, he's told me. A count of how many words I've said to him. 

He's still at zero. 

“The big day’s tomorrow,” he begins to blabber. I tune most of it out, but catch some words—courtyard, guests, Daniel—

“Daniel?” My voice is foreign to me, and the word feels wrong coming out of my mouth, like it's the wrong shape. 

“One,” Hensen gasps. 

I snap my mouth shut.

“Prince Daniel, he's marrying Ashanta—”

No. No no no no no. 

My brother can't marry Ashanta. I told them. I told them twelve years ago about this.

My hands shake in my lap, and I clasp them together. 

“What's wrong?”

There are no words in my head, just no no no no no—

“Myora,” the boy starts. I freeze. 

I haven't heard the name in over 12 years. 4,539 days. 

Not my name. 

The monster’s name. 

My lips part, and Myora’s voice pours out, not the same as earlier. Wicked. Empty. A monster's voice. 

THE CASTLE WALLS WILL CRUMBLE

OUT WILL POUR BLOOD AND BONE

IF THE PRINCE DOES MARRY

ONE NOT OF THIS HOME

The scales beneath my skin shimmer in the torch lights, bright patterns of ruby and onyx. 

Hensen stumbles backward, falling against an empty cell. 

I gasp for air, clawing at my throat, but I can't seem to breathe, can't seem to—

IF THE PRINCE SHOULD CHOOSE

TO MARRY A STRANGER

I WILL BE RELEASED

THERE IS NO GREATER DANGER

Hensen’s entire body shakes on the floor, face ashen. The scales begin to sink, and my skin is once again pale. I rake in a raspy, scratchy breath.

The monster is gone. 

For now. 

“Have they heard this?” Hensen asks.

I nod. 

“That’s why you're down here.”

I nod again. 

“It won't matter, will it? She'll still get out?”

"Yes," I rasp.

“It starts at sunrise. The ceremony—look!”

I look up at the roof of my cell, where a small window lets in a stream of light. 

Colored light. 

My skin begins to burn, the black and red returning. Glowing. 

“Run,” I say. “Run!”

Myora returns. She is here and inside and everywhere and—

I am Myora. 

And everyone will die.