At dawn, the bell tolled thirteen times.
Thirteen. A number that didn't exist on royal clocks, nor in the language of ceremonies. It was a number of omens, of broken magic and forbidden pacts. The girls flinched at each chime.
Elira stood in the marble hall, a line of silk-draped bodies waiting to be sorted like cattle. She wore a borrowed dress-ashen blue, too tight at the waist and too loose in the shoulders. Her hair had been combed, braided, and pinned like a doll's. They'd painted her lips red. Red for blood. Red for roses.
She felt like a corpse dressed for its funeral.
A platform had been raised at the front of the hall. Royal banners hung from its edge-black serpent on white silk-and at its center stood the queen.
Queen Alisandra of Velmora was tall, thin, and cold as frostbite. Her gaze swept over the girls without warmth, without recognition. A man stood beside her-a tall figure in a tattered violet robe, silver chains around his wrists, eyes like hollow moons.
The court seer.
Elira's breath hitched.
He did not look at the queen. He looked at them-through them. And Elira swore, just for a heartbeat, his eyes locked on hers.
Then he raised a hand.
The guards stepped forward and began to call names.
One by one, the girls were led forward. A single drop of blood was drawn from their thumbs and spilled into a silver basin. The seer would dip a black feather into the blood, murmur something no one could hear, and nod or shake his head. Those who received the shake were dismissed. Those who received the nod... stayed.
Elira watched as five girls were sent away. Three kept. Another sent. Another kept.
Her name was the ninth.
She stepped forward slowly. Her legs felt like reeds in wind.
The guard nicked her thumb. Her blood dripped into the basin-dark, red, sharp as a scream.
The seer dipped his feather.
Paused.
His lips moved, speaking words she could not hear, and the shadows around him seemed to lean in.
He looked up.
And smiled.
"Elira of Hearth Hollow," he said, voice a rasp of wind through a graveyard. "The cursed prince accepts."
Elira felt the ground tip. Her vision flickered. Her mouth went dry.
The queen said nothing. Only nodded once, as if confirming the placement of a chess piece.
Elira was led to the side with the other two chosen girls. One of them—the silent one from the cart—gave her a faint, almost pitying glance. The other simply stared at the floor.
The rest were dismissed.
Within the hour, the gates of Velmorne opened again—but this time for only one.
Elira.
There would be no crowd. No carriage. No escort of honor.
Just a horse, a black-cloaked rider, and a road that led east—into the heart of a land cursed by gods.
As she mounted the horse, she turned once. Davi, she thought. Mama.
No one watched her go.
And so began the ride into the dead kingdom of Draemor.
What do you think will happen on her way to Draemor?