I chew on the inside edge of my bottom lip as Coraline unveils the drafting drum with a flourish, inciting a crescendo of “ooohs,” as if it isn’t the same aged contraption Caligo’s been using since the dawn of the Hunt. Coraline rotates the lever, jostling the scraps of paper. On squeaky hinges, the steel barrel spins five times before coming to a halt. Coraline unlatches the front flap, flipping it open and pulling out a single slip. Her berry-painted lips stretch wide as her charcoal-lined hazel eyes scan the paper.
“Our very first Huntress in our two-hundred-seventy-ninth annual Hunt is . . .” Coraline pauses, and the exempts lean in while us eligibles lean away. “Meridna Nox!”
The crowd erupts, jumping to their feet and clambering to get a good look at the first sacrificial offering.
I know Meridna. She’s one of the few eligible women older thanI, but this is only her third year of eligibility. As a single mother, shemet the requirements for exemption until her preteen son died three years ago.
Perhaps that’s why her gaunt face and gray eyes are devoid of emotion as she lowers her hood and walks over to the stage.
The second victim of the drafting drum is Twilynn Rayth.
There’s a break in the applause when no one steps forward. Awoman a few rows to my left trembles in place.
Move, I want to tell her. Better to obey instructions willingly than be forced into submission.
The foul-breathed guard follows the trail of eyes in the crowd and spots her at the same moment I do. He leaps off the raised platform and yanks her hood down, revealing high porcelain cheeks with twin streams of glossy tears. He grabs her by the back of her cloak, spinning her around so the others can get a good look at her. “This Twilynn?”
At first, the surrounding women shake their heads, and I dare to hope that maybe we’ve grown a united backbone against the powers that be. There are other ways of verifying her identity, of course, but the idea that we as a collective would force Chancellor Bren’s men to pursue those alternative methods . . . Who knows what that one simple act of defiance could lead to?
“Yes.” A woman to Twilynn’s right breaks, and my chest deflates.
It’s the only confirmation the guard needs. Fist still buried in her cloak, he drags Twilynn forward and tosses her beside Meridna.
Five more are selected. Each time Coraline slips her perfectly trimmed nails into the barrel, I hold my breath, waiting for my name to be called. Only three spots remain, yet I’m no less convinced
I’ll be one of them.
But the eighth name that echoes through the speaker is one more terrifying than my own.
“Gem Samard.”
My stomach twists in on itself as my widened gaze swivels to the woman directly to my right.
“No!”
Thundering cheers drown out my denial. But the celebrations falter as Gem uncloaks, revealing her bandaged head. A splotch of red has bled through the back of the compression cloth, roiling my already tempest stomach. Shouts turn to murmurs as spectators spot it, too. Even the exempts have qualms about sending an injured woman into the Hunt, though it’s unclear if their reaction is born from a flickering ember of empathy, or concerns about selecting a wounded soldier to defeat our greatest threat.
I shuffle my weight on my feet, aching to grab Gem and run, then shake away the reckless thought. The guards would catch us almost immediately and make a larger spectacle than they did with Twilynn.
But how am I supposed to stand here and accept this?
I can’t.
My hand lifts, and Gem subtly shakes her head. There’s a hint of an apology in the upward tilt of her black brows before she pulls away from my reach and strides forward to take her place among the selected.
That should be me.I’mthe statistical probability. Not Gem.
Her thirty-two entries are nothing compared to all of mine.
She wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me slowing us down this morning. She would’ve made it further down the tunnel by the time the earthquake hit, away from the collapsing debris. Instead, she’s here, being forced into the fate that should’ve been mine.
I glare at the drafting drum as if the weight of all my fear and fury could set fire to every name ensnared within, but the steel barrel remains unaffected. Even if the mechanism could be destroyed, the selections would go on. Chancellor Bren would make sure of it. So, I shift my focus onto the true source of the problem and find that he’s already staring back at me, mock sympathy pulling at his lips. My skin crawls with the revelation that the chancellor must’ve found out about our failed escape. But why risk the unflattering perception of sending a wounded young woman into the Hunt? No one would bat an eye if it was me up there. Then again, what better way to punish me than by taking it out on someone I love?
And that smug tilt of his chin tells me he knows he can get away with it.
Once the thrill of the Hunt begins, most exempts will get over whatever discomfort they currently feel about the condition of a TierThree rat.
I barely register the final two selections until Coraline repeats the tenth name into the microphone . . . Ten names were called, yet none of them were mine. I don’t understand. Why haven’t I been released from this annual cycle of misery? I can’t handle another year of desperately awaiting a random man’s approval only to face rejection, especially not without Gem. If only all of us packed onto this arena floor could force the chancellor’s hand. In unison, we could say,“If the shadows will it, letusbe!”
