Why would Chancellor Bren take an interest in me? I’ve done my part. Stayed away from his son and his thriving new family. An exemplary ex-daughter-in-law and citizen, minus my audacious action of accepting gifted groceries and my failed attempt at running away. But there’s no way he’d know about the latter. We weren’t caught. The gruff, half-naked stranger got Gem to the cabin before the headcount. I made it back unseen. If the chancellor had any reason to suspect us, I’d know by now.
Stop being so paranoid.
I release my hood and pretend my pulse isn’t racing while thevideo builds to the grand finale—an illustrated future where the final Sol falls, leaving humans to roam the surface of the Earth in peace. Only under the protection of night, of course, lest we expose ourselves to the sun’s mutation and rebirth the problem.
The narrator closes off the presentation with Chancellor Bren’s favorite chant: “If the shadows will it, let it be.”
With a shout, the crowd pumps their fists and claps like victory has already been won.
The spotlight returns to the stage, where the chancellor sits in a lavish, black velvet chair—a throne for a quasi-king. To his left sits his third wife in picturesque stoicism. And to his right, Gabe Bren.
My ex-husband.
He’s as painfully handsome as I remember. From the perfectly coiffed swoop of his auburn hair to the thick lashes framing midnight irises, his is a beauty that demands your full attention. So, I oblige, studying his pink lips and the way they tilt up in a smile.
It’s false, of course. The absence of his dimples gives him away. Then again, I haven’t seen him share a true, dimpled grin in over a decade. Perhaps they’ve disappeared with age along with his decency and desire to do better than his father.
The thought is enough to break the allure.
My gaze wanders a few feet to the right, to Coraline Lunam. The newly promoted hostess of the Hunt boasts a too-wide grin as she steps up to the podium. “Wow, wow, wow! I’ll tell you what, I’ll never get tired of seeing our brave Huntresses in action, fighting for our freedom. Will you?”
More like dying for the unattainable concept of our freedom.
Cries of “No!” and “Never!” and “Woo!” blend in a jumbled roar.
“Tonight, ten lucky women will be selected to carry on that legacy. Iknow you’re all anxious to skip to the selections.” Coraline rubsat her swollen stomach and giggles. “Oh! Looks like he’s ready, too. But first, let’s welcome our eligible candidates!”
The drummers flanking each entrance begin beating their mallets to a building rhythm.
Here’s our cue.
Tens of thousands of rabid faces swivel in our direction. Their feral eyes gleam, and I’m not sure if they’re more keen to see which of us will finally seize the unattainable victory over the Sols, or to watch us break. Likely a mix of both.
This is just a game to them. Our lives. Our deaths.
Last night, we were neighbors, if not friends. But tonight, we’re nothing more than glorified pawns that exist for their benefit and entertainment. And what’s more morbidly fascinating than watching someone suffer?
A manic laugh catches in my throat as I recognize that that’s one of the few things I’m good at: suffering. Perhaps this is exactly what I deserve, the purpose I’m meant to fulfill.
I stride forward, shoulders shrinking inward, until I’m three feet in front of the stage, six feet from my ex-husband, and a minute from finding out if the knot that’s been tightening in my chest for weeks now was right to worry.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“So,please lower your hood and step to the base of the stage when your name is called, understood?” Those of us on the arena floor nod as Coraline finishes explaining. Her gaudy rings thump against the microphone as she claps and bounces. “Wonderful! Shall we get to the best part, then?”
The cluster of women to my right parts, forming a path for the two marching guards carrying a cloaked barrel-shaped object: the drafting drum. A black cloth embroidered with the crescent moon emblem covers it, but the steel-plated drum is a sight etched into my nightmares. The machine itself is simple enough, consisting of a rotatable perforated barrel the size of a small child, with a tarnished copper lever on one end. Over a thousand names sit inside its belly.
The bulk of eligible candidates are young—eighteen-year-olds who haven’t been snatched up yet by a bachelor looking to marry. But thanks to the system of doubling entries with every year of eligibility, their names will only appear once or twice, whereas the few of us lucky geriatrics in our tenth year of eligibility are in there 512 times each. Gamblers call us the safe bets.
While I wonder how much of a jackpot my name has collected, the guards ascend onto the round platform and position the drafting drum on a black marble pedestal beside the podium. The two men then take up a position behind the chancellor, and one leans in to relay a whispered message. The flash of yellow teeth confirms the man as the guard who gave Gem and me trouble during check-ins.
For a moment, it seems as though his head tilts in my direction, but I dismiss the paranoia. There are hundreds of women on either side of me; he could be gesturing to any of them. Or perhaps it was an unintentional tilt of the head.
Then Chancellor Bren’s silver brows lift, and his icy gaze flicks to mine before dismissing the guard with a nod.
Out of everything I’ve seen tonight, that glance is the most chilling. As much as I detest the glamorized death montage and barbaric chants, at least they’re expected—normalized, if not normal. This reaction from the chancellor—sensing his attention on me during the video and now, in response to his henchman’s debrief—is an unwelcome deviation.
Even if he suspects that I was the woman in the transport tunnel, he has no eyewitnesses. No proof. Not that it’ll matter in a few moments.
