My spine remains rigid, and I don’t flee.
But other mortals do. There’s a ripple of screams and the crowd jostles. The druids spread out, infiltrating and surrounding the crowd. Their palms glow, energy snaking up my legs and pulling until my knees hit the ground.
Around me, everyone is now kneeling, forced to by magic.
A stillness settles. The druids stop stalking the crowd and straighten, looking to the Wall. I take a moment to assess them—their ears are pointed like the rest of the immortals, but beyond that, I cannot tell much of their features, not with those bare, simplistic masks covering their faces, just like the glimpse I caught that day they took my mother. Their armor barely allows a glimmer of skin to be seen. Maybe theyaredemons.
A flash of light blinds us, and a druid appears from the flame, his movements as smooth as a lynx. A crown of stag-like antlers rests on his brow; his brilliant silver eyes glow beneath it. The wings across his back are twice the size of those of his troops. He must be the Chooser for this Selection. Their unholy king.
A druid woman, draped in gossamer spiderwebs, stands at his side.
A young man trails them, wearing all black, his clothes regal yet militaristic, the golden accents setting him apart from the rest of the troops, his long dark hair parting around spiraling black horns. His cunning indigo eyes are visible from here, though his wings are not sinewy like theirs but instead feathered like a raven’s, the color shifting in the light.
Lastly stands a child who cannot be much older than eight. His onyx hair rests on his shoulders, face masked like the rest of his family, the horns around his head small and stunted.
They look out over the sea of kneeling figures. If I’m to be Selected, I must be seen. It’s why I saved every copper snail and silver spider to pay the clothier to spin me a cloak designed to shine, to catch the light, with dyes uncommon of humans so the colors would force me to stand out. I pull my hood back and let my hair fly behind me like a wild banner.
See me, notice me, look at me,I demand, sending the thoughts out like a prayer. A curse.
My focus catches on the older of the two princes.The break of clouds highlights his sleek, shining black hair as his gaze settles on me. My heart startles as his eyes hew closer to purple. Is it a trick of the light? Or some druid feature? His head tilts, eyes trailing me up and down, his attention unwavering despite the fury in my gaze—until I moisten my dry lips, and then they seem to be all he can look at.
Well …hecertainly notices me.
“Hail to King Silas, Queen Vesta, Prince Draven, and Prince Ansel of the Vos Dynasty,” a vizier announces. He wears rich robes of mauve, standing out among the druid crimson, blacks, and gold, and trails the king like a shadow, always hovering, attention locked to him.
“Prince Draven and Prince Ansel will be performing the Selection as is the rite of passage for our people,” the king states, his voice deep and hoarse like a shovel scraped over a shallow grave. He lays a gentle hand on his youngest son’s shoulder, his fingers limned in bone-scaled armor, and the absence across my shoulder burns like fire.
As if the phantom trail of my father’s hand traces the same path.
Prince Ansel takes a couple of hesitant steps away from his parents, round eyes scanning my side of the crowd beneath that sinister satyr’s mask. His steps are as faltering as a newborn deer’s, a child performing a ritual he doesn’t understand the consequences of. I think of my brother, younger than this boy when he was Selected. Steel laces up my spine.
I willmakehim choose me if I must.
Yet Prince Draven stops him from heading my way, turning little Ansel around and whispering something in his small, pointed ear. Prince Ansel nods up at his older brother, grasping his hand, and Prince Draven tugs him toward the other side.They’ll make this Selection together. My hopes sink. What if they’ve made all their Selections before they reach me? The young prince would have been easier to guile, willing and eager to submit.
Prince Draven seems … more difficult.
I cannot tell his age, but he doesn’t seem much older than my twenty years. But the effortless grace of his movements sends a warning firing through my chest. It whispers he’s something other, something magic, a dangerous predator to watch and not turn my back upon. His eyes are the only visible bit of him beyond his tall, muscled form and long dark hair, wearing a mask like all the others. Yet, that gaze lingers on me again and again, a crinkle visible in the corners as if he finds me amusing. My lip curls, yet I can’t stop staring right back.
This prick has probably had everything handed to him his whole life. I focus on his narrow waist, his muscular arms, and shoulders. Even his damn legs are powerful beneath the dark cloth. Damn it, he must have a weakness somewhere. I force my gaze from lingering too long anywhere else, and his eyes flit back to me again. I swear there’s some smugness there, as if he can read exactly how I just drank in his strapping body.
What an asshole.
While others duck their heads, I keep my eyes on Prince Draven. He whispers instructions to his brother, allowing the boy to make guided choices. At first, Prince Ansel wavers, but then he grows more confident with each Selection. When one girl cries, Ansel freezes, head swiveling back to his parents with worry. The Queen nods, encouraging his wickedness, so he continues, Draven a hissing serpent at his side.
The Selection speeds up, and the choices come faster. Prince Draven never deigns to pick, though his whispers in his brother’sear make me wonder if he’s secretly chosen them all. They Select as many in the back and middle as the front.
They’re only a few steps away. My heart races when Prince Ansel stops, and my breaths halt with him. He counts on his fingers, then turns to his brother.
“How many more?”
“Four,” Prince Draven supplies. His words ghost across the nape of my neck despite him standing several paces away. My lungs don’t catch enough air. I can’t risk waiting another year to be Selected. It must be now.
“Oh, good. Only four,” Prince Ansel huffs, relieved. As if this is harder on them than the families here. He walks a few more steps, choosing the lava-cursed guy even though he kept his head lowered. Then, a ginger-haired girl my age, chin held high, throat bobbing, tears streaking down her freckled face. Prince Ansel walks nearer. So small up close.
He stands inches from my face. I thrum with anticipation.Me, choose me.He takes me in, then my hair. He points to Kasper instead, his small, soft hand lifting and Kasper’s shoulders sag in respite. Now, there’s only one to go.
My stomach churns, readying to flip.
