Chapter 1

SITA

I ’ve only seen my mother cry once before. It was when my father died, leaving us ten cows, four goats, some chickens, and a shed full of tools. We sold the tools first to pay our bills, though later—when I was much older—I regretted it. I could have learned his trade and perhaps used it to buy us food.

Now, Mother is crying again for the first time in a decade. Her arms are wrapped around me tight, her tears dripping down her cheeks and onto my forehead.

“She doesn’t need to go until tomorrow,” old Mason says, gently patting my mother’s shoulder. She yanks me away, clutching me tighter against her as she cries.

My mother has never been the type of person to show her affection on her sleeve. She has never embraced casually, or kissed us on the forehead, or even held our hands at market the way some other mothers and their children do. But now she won’t release me, even though I’ve already accepted my fate. As much as I detest it, that it was me who was chosen, it’s what has to be done if everyone in the village is to live through the winter.

Finally, Mason steps away, leaving us alone on the floor of the pub. I’m still clasping the shortest wisp of straw in my hand, the one that sealed my fate. All the young adult members of the village had been required to choose one from the pile without looking, and in turn, I drew the shriveled stalk that would doom me.

There are hushed murmurs of sympathy as the other villagers retreat. Though they feel bad for my mother and me, they are all grateful, too, that it was not their own young son or daughter chosen. My peers, those who I’ve gone to school with and played with all my life, file out of the pub quietly. At least they won’t rub it in and choose instead to give me space to say goodbye.

The only one who remains when Mother lets me go is Van. He was too young to be eligible, thankfully. But now it’ll be me who goes, leaving my sensitive, earnest brother to take my place.

The farm has never brought in enough money for us to live, so I’ve always worked in the neighbor’s fields while Van goes to school. I’d hoped I could spare my brother from hard labor, but now, he’s going to have to quit his education if he and Mother are going to have enough money to survive.

Thinking about what I’m going to leave behind is much easier than thinking about what lies ahead of me. That way there is only fear, only the unknown.

My mother finally lowers her arms, though they’re still shaking. She looks into my face, cradling my cheeks in her palms.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, voice barely more than a whisper. “I’m so sorry, sweeta .”

Her nickname for me. She hasn’t used it since I was twelve, and hearing it fall from her lips now, when I am twenty and about to be ripped away from her, finally brings my own sobs to the surface.

There are so many things I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to protect Van, to support Mother, to maybe someday find a partner and have a family of my own. And maybe, eke out a place where every day wasn’t simply a fight to survive for us.

But now I am all out of time.

That night, our home is somber. Mother cooks a meal, and Van sets the table without being asked, neither of them speaking. I sit in one of the chairs, hands crossed, staring at the artwork on the wall while they labor. Van painted it himself a few years ago, and Mother liked it so much she hung it up. The thick brush strokes evoke trees, mountains, even a river. Our homeland.

I glare at the river. That is what killed our crops this summer, devastating us. The weather grew warm too early and too quickly, sending water cascading down the mountainsides. The river swelled as fat as a leech, and once the banks could no longer contain it, it spilled over the sides, drowning everything in its path. Crops, homes, all gone.

Now the village has nothing, and I am their only salvation. Not that I had any choice in the matter.

“Here you go,” Van says over my shoulder, sliding a meager plate of food in front of me. Stale bread, unripe squash, and a chicken thigh from one of our few remaining animals. I’m grateful for it. I know the chicken is a special occasion when we have so few left, and Mother did it for me to say goodbye.

None of us speak as we eat dinner, even as my dread about tomorrow crawls under my skin. There’s nothing left to be said. Mother doesn’t know what will happen to me after I’m given to the monsters, and there’s no point in speculating. She simply reaches over partway through dinner and rubs my shoulder affectionately, and when I glance at her, her eyes are wet and streaked with red.

That night, when Van and I are supposed to be asleep in our bedroom, he sits up abruptly.

“What if you came back?” he asks, voice suddenly excited.

“Came back?” I shake my head and sigh. “There’s no coming back.”

“But you could sneak away. We bring you to them, they bring the food to us. Then, once we have the food, you break out and come back home!”

I have to smile at his train of thought, but nursing these silly flames of hope will only make our separation harder.

“Van.” I sit up, too, peering at him in the faint light of the stars coming in our window. “That could start a war. And you know who would win that war.” We are a small village with little to defend ourselves with.

The excitement fades from his face, and he stares down at his lap.

“There has to be something we can do.” He sniffs, then wipes his eyes with his arm. “I can’t believe they’re just throwing you away. Giving you to them , as if you’re cattle.”

“It’s not like that.” He might be right, but I can’t leave him thinking that way or he’ll resent everyone in the village for as long as he lives. “I’m... I’m going willingly, Van.”

His head snaps up. “What? No, you aren’t!”

I shush him with a finger on my lips. We don’t want to wake Mother, not when she’s probably already in a fitful sleep.

“I am. This is what the village needs. I drew the straw, and it was fair.”

Now Van is crying, and I wish this could be different. I try to memorize his face, even with tears streaking down it, because I’ll likely never see it again.

I get out of bed and sit down next to him, then bring my sweet little brother into my arms. He cries until he’s finally run out of tears.

“I need you to be stronger than this when I leave,” I say, patting him on the back. “All right? You need to be tough so you can support Mother. You’re going to be all she has.”

He sniffs and nods, so I get up and return to my bed. But even as Van finally drifts off to sleep, his tiny snores filling the air, I can barely close my eyes.

What will the monsters do with me?

The following morning, Mason arrives at our house early, along with seven other village men. They all carry weapons and have brought horses and half a dozen empty wagons. If they can manage to fill all those empty wagons with food and supplies, we might just have a chance at surviving the winter.

Well, my village will. Mother and Van will.

At least the orcs have food that we don’t. I hope that I’ll be fed well while I live among them, if I can forget about the other terrible things they might do to me.

I haven’t spent much time on that word, orc , hoping that I could simply forget it. But as the moment looms closer, I think it over and over again. Orc. Orc. Orc.

Monsters. Animals. Whatever you want to call them, this was the trade they arranged. When their emissary arrived in our village only last week, he was greeted with pitchforks and swords. Orcs may not appear often, since they live in the mountains and we occupy the valley, but stories about them have always circulated in our villages. They’re warlike and cruel, especially to humans, as if we are a blight upon their land.

The emissary was very specific in the orcs’ requirements for the trade: one young man or woman, of youthful breeding age, in exchange for goods. And I am well within this parameter.

Breeding age . Now, along with orc , this phrase is circling my mind.

I know what I’ll be used for. I’ve tried my hardest not to think about it, but now, it all swarms to the surface as Mason and his men take off their hats, faces downcast.

I turn around and throw my arms around my mother, trying to hold my burgeoning fear inside so I don’t upset her even more. She strokes my back, whispering, “I’m sorry, sweeta . I’m so sorry it was you. It should never have been you.”

Van attempts to remain stoic, but when I hug him, he falls apart. Before I can comfort him, though, Mason clears his throat.

“We must go now, so we can meet at the drop-off point before sunset.”

I nod and swallow. We can’t be late or the orcs might simply change their minds. Then our hunger in the coming months would rest on my conscience.

I don’t say anymore goodbyes to my mother and brother. The time has passed. I walk away with Mason, who attempts to help me up onto a horse, but I don’t need anyone’s help climbing into a saddle. When he gets the message, he walks off and mounts his own horse, and then it’s time to go and meet my fate, whatever that is.

It’s a mindlessly long trip. Excruciating, really, to walk in silence with only the sound of our horses’ hoofbeats to break up the monotony. I try not to spend the empty time thinking, imagining, picturing what my future life will be like, because there’s no way for me to know.

And yet, I think. I imagine. I dread the possibilities, knowing how I’m intended to be used. An orc will surely want to put his cock in me and make me carry his offspring—or whatever you call baby orcs. Why else would they have made such a request if that weren’t their intention?

I wonder if I’ll be given to one orc or used by them all. How does orc society work? I have no idea; I don’t think any of us do. If these men did, they would say it, perhaps try to lend me some advice. But the emissary the orcs sent provided nothing, so we’re all going into this stupid and ignorant.

Now the river is lower, that mercurial bastard, low enough that our horses are willing to cross it. After that, we climb into the hills as the day drags on into afternoon. At last, as the sun’s rays are turning harsh and orange, we reach an open meadow. A burbling creek runs through it, and in the very center is an ancient, dead tree.

That’s where the orcs are waiting for us.

Mason goes first, then urges me to follow along with the other men and the carts. The orcs, too, have brought wagons, but theirs are overflowing with produce, goods, and barrels full of what I hope are preserved foods. From this distance, all I can make out are very tall, broad men with olive-green skin. As we move closer, though, I find they vary in color, from whitish green to dark pine green, with some more vibrant hues in the middle. There are fifteen of them and eight of us, so we just have to hope they don’t want a fight.

When we get closer, though, it becomes apparent that the orcs aren’t just tall, but enormous, and their bodies look brutishly strong, even the women among them. Their faces are different from ours, with yellow eyes and upturned, squashed noses, alongside jutting lower jaws that are broad enough to hold their huge tusks.

Tusks. That’s what I’ll be surrounded by until the end of my days—tusks. I’ll never look like anyone around me again, not even the children I bear. Terror lances through me, and I resist the urge to turn around and run.

When we’re close enough, Mason dismounts, and one of the orcs on the other side approaches on foot. He’s severe-looking, with a stripe of hair down the middle of his bald head.

They meet in the middle, and words are spoken, but they’re far enough away that I can’t hear anything above a vague murmur. I shift uneasily in my horse’s saddle, trying not to be consumed by every heinous possibility.

At last, the orc who appears to be the leader gestures over his shoulder, and the other orcs pull their wagons forward.

“Come, Sita,” calls Mason. I sit up straight and urge my horse into a walk. The leader of the orcs surveys me up and down as I come to a stop in front of him.

“Hm. This will do.” The orc’s voice is scratchy and rough, and he speaks with a thick, heavy accent. I knew orcs spoke a different language, but the reality hits me that I will probably have to learn their tongue if I want to get by.

The exchange of goods begins. While everyone is occupied carrying bags of grain from one wagon to another, even Mason, the head orc continues watching me.

Does he plan to take me for himself?

“You will not bring the horse,” he says after a time.

Frowning, I clutch the reins tighter. “Why not?”

“No horses.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and so I slide out of my saddle and land on the ground. I thought I’d be riding the whole way, and my shoes aren’t in very good shape. I glance up at the mountains rising overhead to the north of us, where the orcs came from.

Damn it.

When the sun is setting and the goods have all been transferred, Mason waves his hand at me.

“I’m sorry it had to be this way, Sita,” he says. “Thank you for your sacrifice.”

As if it was a choice I made.

I say nothing as he and the other villagers depart with wagons full to bursting. At least Van will have something to eat this winter. I have to hold that close to me so I don’t fall apart.

Now that we have the food, could I turn and run? I don’t know what would happen, though, if they caught me. The rumors about orcs have always said they are brutish and ruthless, even to their own kind. Who knows how badly they would treat me should I be disobedient?

I turn to the orcs, who are all watching me with stern expressions on their faces. Or do they just look like that naturally? It’ll be a while before I can tell.

“Come,” the leader says, jerking his head in the direction of the mountain. “We have a long way to go tonight and tomorrow.”

As if this couldn’t get any worse.