Nobody greets him back.
Nobody even breathes.
Hadrun doesn’t seem bothered. He pulls a scroll from his belt and unrolls it with a sharp snap of parchment. The sound makes several people flinch. “By decree of Clan Lord Vlorn Draegor, Warden of the Ironhold and Lord of the Bone March, the Blood Tithe is due.”
The crowd shifts. Someone whimpers—a child, maybe. The sound cuts off quickly, muffled.
I know what’s coming. We all know.
Every year, the Iron Warlord takes one of us. One soul to serve in his fortress, to keep his protection over Red Hollow and the other villages in his territory. Without that protection, the rival clans would sweep through and burn everything to ash. With it, we’re safe.
Safe, but not free.
My throat tightens. The awl grows slippery in my palm—sweat despite the autumn chill.
“One person.” Hadrun scans the crowd, appraising goods. “Chosen by lot and decree. One year of service in exchange for another year of peace.”
One year.That’s what they say.
But Mara Gildstone was taken five years ago. Never came back. Neither did Thomas Copper before her. Or Jenna Wheelwright the year before that.
One year of service.
Sure.
My mother’s hand finds my shoulder from behind. I didn’t even hear her approach—didn’t hear her leave the bakery stallwhere she works. Her fingers dig in, shaking hard enough that I sense each individual finger.
“Zoraya Whitfield.”
The name hangs in the air.
My name.
No.
The square goes so quiet, I hear my own heartbeat hammering. The rasp of my breath. Mrs. Corven makes a sound—wounded animal trapped in a woman’s throat.
My mother’s grip tightens until it hurts, until I’m sure her nails will leave crescents in my skin.
I don’t move.
Can’t make my body understand what my brain is screaming.
Hadrun’s eyes find me across the crowd, and satisfaction crosses his scarred face. The corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Zoraya Whitfield, seamstress. Step forward.”
“No.” My mother’s voice breaks on the word, high and desperate. “No, please, take someone else—take me—she’s just a?—“
“The lot has been cast, woman. The decree is made.” Hadrun’s voice doesn’t change. Doesn’t soften. He gestures lazily, and two soldiers dismount behind him with heavy thuds. “Step forward, girl, or we drag you.”
The crowd parts.
Every single person steps back, creating a clear path between my stall and the captain. Their feet shuffle against the cobblestones, scraping and quick. Even Mrs. Corven moves away, clutching her daughter’s ruined gown to her chest—a shield against whatever curse might touch her by association.
Cowards. Every last one.
Thomas the butcher won’t meet my eyes. Neither will Sara the baker, who just last week told me I was a daughter to her.The hunters who pay me to mend their gear turn their backs entirely.
My brother shoves through from the left, face flushed red and furious. Tavyn’s only nineteen, still has that gangly look of someone growing into his height. “You can’t just—she’s barely twenty-four! She’s not even?—“
