Her skin was littered with sharp, jagged white scars that gleamed in the rising light. She was glaring, but she kept her head high, ignoring the murmuring from the crowd, the stares. Her pale yellow eyes were fixed on the horizon, past her parents, and they held the same eerie glow.
Alana had the same olive skin as her father, and she looked like a warrior heading off to battle…or she would have if she weren’t wearing a ruffled blue dress.
I turned to Cynthia, who was already looking at me, and we both mouthed, “It's her.” And we had to hold in a giggle as we did.
We turned our attention back to the approaching royals, and I flinched as the princess’s icy gaze locked onto mine. I bowed my head slightly, my eyes darting toward the ground.
I shivered and glanced at Cynthia, who also had her head bowed, and I dared a glance back up. The princess was no longer looking our way, and I sighed in relief as I watched them approach the center of the stage.
Everyone went deathly quiet, and we all jumped when a cry split the air from somewhere near the last carriage. All eyes turned toward the sound, and a tall, muscular guard appeared, dragging a wailing, thrashing male behind him toward the stage. His wrists were bound by tight leather straps and the guard was pulling him by the collar of his tattered tunic.
“I’m not a rebel, I promise! It wasn’t me, I swear!” His voice was hoarse with desperation, each plea edged with panic.
Something dark swirled around the male's body, and he screamed somehow louder. “Please, no!”
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as the man now appeared bound in inky shadows on the stage at the queen's feet. The male thrashed in his new bindings, his cries echoing across the square.
“I promise—it wasn’t me! I didn’t do it! I’m not a rebel, I swear!”
The king's hand twitched, and his cries were choked off as the air was stolen from his lungs. Wet, gasping noises filled the air, and the crowd shifted uncomfortably as we all watched him fight against his bindings, struggling for breath.
“We do not tolerate traitors. Nor do we allow rebel scum to walk free,” the king barked. “Let this be a warning to you all.”
The male was lifted into the air and placed on his knees before the queen, facing the crowd. Tears were falling down his cheeks, and he was shaking his head violently, his eyes spearing into the crowd, pleading for anyone to help.
In the next instant, the queen lunged. Her fangs snapped down, sinking into the man’s artery. Blood sprayed across the stage, and children shrieked; a few breaking from the line we had formed and sprinting toward their parents.
Shouts rang out as parents tried to tell them to stop, to go back, but it was too late.
The king already had his shadows spearing toward the three fleeing children. The tendrils lashing around their small bodies, dragging them toward the stage as they screamed in terror. Their parents were shouting, sobbing, but they didn’t dare move from the crowd toward them.
“And we do not tolerate cowards,” the king thundered, his voice resonating with brutal authority.
The queen dropped the drained man with a thud, her hungry gaze sweeping the crowd. She kicked his limp body from the stage, rolling him into the dirt at the feet of the villagers.
The children appeared in a blast of shadow on the stage, and the queen drew a serrated dagger from her hip, turning toward them. Their bodies went limp, subdued by unseen magic, their cries winking out.
This happened every year. And every year, despite knowing the cost, children still ran.
The queen stepped closer, and everyone held their breath. The only sound was the muffled sobs of their parents in the crowd.
With deliberate precision, the queen dragged her dagger across each child’s palm. I watched carefully, trying to see what she was looking for, but her face revealed nothing as she examined their blood. The queen glanced at the king and gave a slight shake of her head.
He released his grip on the children, their bodies thudding to the stage as guards rushed forward to seize them.
They were theirs now. They would serve as sources or servants, their cowardice binding them to a life of labor.
A hand slipped into mine, and I squeezed my eyes shut, clutching Cynthia’s hand against my back so no one would see. I let go quickly, fearing it might be taken as weakness, but the fleeting comfort had steadied me.
The king and queen faced the crowd once more, smug satisfaction etched across their faces. The princess remained unmoved. She hadn’t flinched, hadn’t spoken—only stood silently, looking bored.
“Begin,” the king declared, his voice echoing over the square.
Guards started to shuffle the children forward, and one by one their palms were cut open by the queen's blade. She never spoke; only gave a nod for those chosen and dismissed the ones that weren't, ignoring their pleas to check again.
Cynthia and I were approaching the stage now, our steps light as we shuffled forward. A tall, lanky boy was in front of me; his fine clothing, and clean skin were a stark contrast to mine. I glanced down at my dress, dirty and faded, and a wave of embarrassment flooded me, my cheeks warming as I took another step.
We were only a few steps away from the stage now, and I swung my gaze toward my mother, searching for her in the crowd. When my gaze crashed with hers, the fear I saw within her large blue eyes didn’t make me feel any better. Her hands were wringing together in front of her, and she gave a small smile in my direction. I tried to smile back, but it might have fallen short.
