“Keep it moving!” a man calls from the back of the cramped chamber. “There’s more of yous coming. Make way.”
My gaze fixates on the sliver of bright light between the two doors as another nameless guard tugs me closer to the entrance.
The last time I was this close to the front of the line was my very first year of eligibility. A week had passed since Chancellor Bren had signed an amendment to the constricting marriage laws, making it possible for a man to divorce his wife if she bears no heirs within the first twenty-four months of their union. Before the ink on the amendment had dried, his son finalized our divorce. Since we’dmarried the day I turned marital age, the Hunt was something I hadn’t needed to worry about. And why would it be? We were childhood sweethearts. Even after the divorce, I thought surely he’d petition his father for my exemption. My naivety shattered the night one of Chancellor Bren’s henchmen burst into my cabin and escorted me to this very spot. I’d insisted they were mistaken, pleaded to be released, until my words gave way to incoherent sobs the moment those double doors split open.
That was the first time I’d had to face the cruelty of the position that sun-damned constitution forces too many of us into—the first time I had to face the callousness of what happens in this room. Where’s the honor in drafting unwed, childless women into battle with no chance of survival?
Unlike then, no tears race down my cheeks when the doors swing wide. A fresh wave of cheers carries down the stands.
We wait at the threshold. Though the doors to all six receiving chambers are now open, it is not yet our cue to enter. How long we stand here, on display for all of Caligo’s superior tiers to gawk at, depends entirely on the whim of the chancellor.
Two men in the row above our entrance lean over the concrete ledge. They point at us, taking bets on which of us are more likely to be selected. Most of their words are stifled beneath the ruckus, but I hear mentions of withered hands and jowls.
The speakers crackle to life, halting the chatter. A silver spotlight illuminates the circular stage in the heart of the arena floor that rotates as it rises. The double-sided screen dangling directly above comes to life with Caligo’s official crescent moon emblem. Our city has limited resources and strict rations for energy usage, hence the reliance on bioluminescent sconces, yet no resource is spared for the chancellor and his theatrics.
Chancellor Bren’s crystal eyes glimmer like a proud father’s as he strides into the beam of light and stretches his arms wide. Spectators rise to roar their admiration, hoisting babies onto their shoulders and throwing fists into the air. The chancellor mouths his thanks while clutching a palm over his chest—a humble public servant basking in the praise. A minute or so into the ovation, he flips over his palms, signaling for voices to lower, heads to bow. As one, thousands of chins dip in reverence.
“Welcome, sons and daughters of Caligo. Before we begin, let us first pray. Merciful shadows, we thank you for shrouding our great city from the abominations above. We invite your blessed darkness to guide us tonight as we choose the next round of Huntresses to further our noble cause of eliminating the Sols, so that we may one day know true peace above and below. If the shadows will it, let it be.”
The whole of the arena concurs,“Let it be!”
Chancellor Bren beams, lapping up the attention of this call-and-response. “Two hundred seventy-nine years ago, the Sols drove us to the brink of extinction after the Last War massacres. The shadows welcomed us, gave us shelter, time to multiply. Our enemies’ fatal dependence on the sun deterred them from following us, but our founders—may they rest in the peace of eternal darkness—knew we’d never attain full freedom until every last Sol was eradicated. Thus began the Hunt.”
On cue, the spotlight dims and the crescent moon emblem fades from the screen as the highlight reel begins. Almost three centuries’ worth of footage edited down to showcase the most thrilling moments of past Hunts.
A collective gasp echoes through the stands when a Sol appears in frame. Charred flesh stretches across its vaguely humanoid face as it cocks its head and blinks its iridescent eyes—eyes that are onlycapable of a single feeling: guttural thirst. Cursed to crave the humanity burned away by the golden sunlight pulsating through its veins.
The video jumps to a full-body shot, filmed at an angle close to the ground, likely from the camera of a fallen Huntress. A black-and-gold figure lunges across the screen, grabbing a woman by the throat and lifting her. She attempts to lift her nightstone sword, arcing it toward the Sol’s neck. But the creature moves faster. It dodges the attack and pummels the Huntress into the ground so hard that the weapon slips from her grip.
Another angle switch, filmed from the point of view of the Sol’s current victim, shows the scorched skin around its mouth peeling back. Its tongue extends, splitting into six needle-like pincers that burrow past the woman’s fighting leathers straight into her chest.
Then, it drinks.
The woman’s flailing arms twitch violently before going limp as the last of her life essence is drained from her.
I lower my gaze to the empty arena floor.
Perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should study more of the Sols’ movements, so I can have a semblance of a strategy when my name gets called.
But the barbarity of it all is no longer a novelty. Not to me. There’s nothing new to see in these clips that I haven’t seen before. The Huntresses who attack get killed. The Huntresses who run get killed. No matter the strategy, the result is the same.
Three women, since the formation of Caligo, have defied the odds. Not by landing a blow or outrunning the Sols. No, each of these women used their comrades as bait, waiting until the creatures were thoroughly engrossed in ripping apart their prey. Covered in the blood of their peers, they laid motionless among the viscera, waiting until sunset. As soon as the Sols retreated for the night, they ran home.
Only one of those exceptions happened during my lifetime: Jacqueline Winters.
I was a young teenager with little interest in the Hunt, since I’d been under the impression even then that I’d never have to worry about eligibility. But from what I remember, Jacqueline wasn’t exactly given a hero’s welcome when she found her way back.
We’re told that being selected for the Hunt is a chance to fulfill your duty by fighting for our collective freedom. Yet Jacqueline didn’t fight for her city or her comrades. She fought for herself.
And I don’t blame her one bit.
Colors and shadows flicker across the arena as the screen cycles through dozens of gruesome deaths, glamorizing them with slow-motion sequences and a dramatic build-up in the soundtrack.
My eyes rove around, eager to look at literally anything but the screens, when my neck prickles with the sensation of being watched.
I shift my cloak back the tiniest bit and scan the visible faces of those in the first row directly across from my entrance. They’re all dutifully glued to the video, pupils dilated and mouths parted.
My attention returns to the stage. Though the spotlight is off, I could swear the man standing there is angled directly towards me.
