He’s confusing my snowy hair for age. He probably doesn’t know whatmoon-cursedeven means, as it’s only an affliction of mortals. My face heats, temple sweating as my window closes, hopes shuttering.
The young prince’s fine-boned shoulders slump, eyes glazing over the crowd beyond me, but it’s clear he’s exhausted, and the rest around me are actual elders, rarely chosen. I glower at Draven, who holds my gaze as if he enjoys seeing me on my knees, but he doesn’t whisper anything more to his brother, letting him choose. Or be persuaded. I see my opportunity.
“Pick me,” I whisper in a rush. Those beside me lean away sharply. Prince Ansel’s steady sapphire eyes snap to mine, and I’m surprised at how commanding they are for a child. But then he startles and steps back into his brother. I wince. We’re not allowed to speak to the immortal royals. It’s strictly forbidden, worthy of execution. My gaze slowly travels upright, meeting Prince Draven’s burning indigo stare at well over six feet tall.
The color shifts, turning purple before my eyes. Definitely not a trick, then, but some magic I don’t recognize. There’s a light in them that shouldn’t be there, a daring playfulness, like a wolf toying with a hare before it sinks its teeth in.
His head tilts to the side, and then suddenly he kneels, still taller than his young brother, but now closer to my eye level. Draven’s hand supports the small of his brother’s back to keep his spine straight, undaunted.
“She isn’t supposed to speak to me,” Prince Ansel whispers worriedly, looking to him.
Prince Draven appraises me in that same steady way, devouring me. His tone is mischievous as he utters, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep that a secret between the three of us, won’t we?”
Prince Ansel gives a small giggle, as jarring as if it were released during a funeral. Yet he nods.
His small hand lifts and points square at my chest.
2The Wall
The Magician card is the next step in the Fool’s journey, a claiming of agency and manifestation. But in its reverse, it represents the loss of autonomy and being tricked by an illusion.
I FORCE THE SMIRKoff my face as Prince Draven observes me. It’s not joy that burns beneath my skin but righteous, blinding vengeance. Draven’s gaze lingers a moment longer before he saunters back to his parents, a hand on his young brother’s shoulder.
With the one hundred chosen, the Selection is at its end.
For once, I am among the unlucky few.
The noblemen who were watching me before glare outright now, but I only grin smugly back at them. I’m sure they hate knowing one of their “untouchable” buddies was laid out by a peasant girl like me, and now they’ll never get their retribution. I rub my eyebrow with my middle finger and chuckle as they glower, but I’m done kowtowing to them, done minding my tongue.
Guards separate the Selected from the crowd, hands on their swords. This is it. Dread dances with anticipation in my chest as I look up to that Wall. The answers all finally within reach.
I haven’t prayed in years, but I say one now since there’s no one left to do it for me.
Let me find them. And if not, let me live long enough to make these immortal bastards pay.
Druid guards file around us, our group stumbling into a column, organized only by its fear as we begin our walk toward the Wall. Prince Ansel returns to his mother and father’s sides, the former sweeping him into an embrace. Proud of his wickedness.
The king takes note of my glare. He whispers something to his eldest son, and Prince Draven releases a scoff angled in my direction. My eyes narrow.
His mother’s hand rises, and a card follows the movement, floating at her fingertips. It levitates on its own, darkness branching around it. I’ve rarely seen magic so closely, outside the few moments when immortals parade their powers at their Selections. I don’t know its rules, its limitations, or whether it even has any—let alone if it compares to godly might. Surely itmustcome with some price?
I watch as that darkness seeps out. A billowing shadow grows, obscuring my vision and engulfing the king and small prince. It spreads like a gathering storm, and I throw my arm up, stepping back. My heel catches on something—
A rush of wind flows past me, moving my hair, and a hand grasps me under my arm before I can fall. Prince Draven looks down at me, righting me on my feet. Oh great, this asshole. He smells like the expensive colognes of noblemen. There isn’t a speck of dirt on his finely crafted onyx suit and every inch of him screams of entitlement. Yet he holds me as if I weigh nothing and helped me when I would’ve let him fall flat on his masked face.
“Thank you,” I grit out. His family is gone, vanished in that casual display of might. The sand shifts at my feet, becomingsoft and making it harder to tread through, crimson as clay. We’ve crossed the Red Line.
“You know …” His voice is low as he looks me over, his eyes as dark as forgotten, haunted places. “Most would address me as Your Royal Highness.”
I clench my jaw, annoyed to find him falling into step at my side. His eyes focus on my face with rapt attention, as though I’m a fascinating creature that has not been named or a new toy for him to play with.
“Apologies, Royal Princeling, for not groveling more. I am but a weak human girl being marched to her death, and this is all the humanity I can spare you.”
A dark, low chuckle sounds from him, like a growl caught in his chest. “Wow, well, I was going to offer to spare you the climb.” He looks meaningfully at the Wall looming in front of us. “As a thank-you for helping my brother make an easy choice that I imagine I’ll one day pay for.”
“I don’t need your pity, Princeling.” I’ll be sure they regret choosing me. I side-eye him, but he steps away, where shadows rumble darker than storm clouds, a tarot card curling at his fingers.
“Enjoy the climb, then.” His eyes sweep over me and the heavy darkness swallows him up.
