Chapter 1: The Sacrifice Nobody Wanted

I became a mistress.

A mistress—at least, that’s what they called me. But really, I was more like a sacrificial offering: tied to a cinder block, tossed into the river, and sent to the bottom as a tribute to the so-called river spirit.

The water was freezing and pitch-black, swallowing me whole as I sank. Fury burned in my chest at the sheer injustice of it all. I should’ve been terrified. Instead, I was mad as hell. Somewhere in that swirling dark, the river spirit herself was just as fed up, rolling her eyes at the clueless folks above.

“This lady wants a man. Why do they keep sending me women? Seriously, is it that hard?”

I floated there, blinking through the gloom, not sure if I was hearing things. After a beat, I swallowed and asked, “Is it possible I was sent to be your mistress—or, uh, offering?”

She huffed. "If you’re a woman, you should’ve said so earlier. No wonder, after all these years of offerings, nobody’s ever gotten it right!"

I couldn’t help it—I let out a short, incredulous laugh. The absurdity hit me like a slap: centuries of rituals, and nobody bothered to check the most basic detail. Just my luck.

With that, the river spirit finally got it.

“You mean, because people assume I’m a man, that’s why they keep sending me maids... and mistresses every year?”

I nodded hard, trying not to crack up as the implications sank in. The whole tradition was just a game of telephone gone wrong.

I glanced at the nine young women standing behind the river spirit, and for a second, I was just speechless. The absurdity was almost too much.

A twisted pageant. Only the prize was a watery grave. I scanned their faces—fear, confusion, and a few angry stares. Couldn’t blame them.

People said the river spirit was a guardian, looking out for them, and everyone along the banks respected her.

You’d hear folks at the diner swap stories about the river spirit’s blessings—good harvests, safe crossings. Old-timers would tip their hats to the water, kids would skip stones and whisper wishes. At the county fair, the river spirit’s name came up as often as the pie contest winners.

So when the river spirit wanted to get married, the folks living under her protection would throw a festival, picking the prettiest and purest girls as tributes, hoping to win her favor.

They’d host a whole festival—picnic tables, lemonade, pie-eating contests, BBQs, and ring toss games. But behind the smiles, every family wondered if their daughter would be chosen. The air always tasted bittersweet.

Some families even felt proud when their daughters were chosen.

It was twisted, really—pride tangled up with tragedy. Moms would wipe away tears and stand tall, as if sacrifice was a badge of honor. Dads would shake hands and say, "She’s doing her duty." As if sending your daughter to die was something to brag about.

“What’s wrong with these people? It’s one thing to arrange a marriage for me without asking, but nobody even bothered to ask if I swing that way?”

The river spirit was fed up, and the nine girls and I were just as over it.

We exchanged glances—resentment simmering under the surface. Yeah, we all had plenty to say about that.

One side never asks, the other never says, and in the end, it’s just us unlucky ones who get offered up?

It was like a bad joke, and we were the punchline. I let out a sigh, wishing I could roll my eyes hard enough to change fate.