2. Alina

The town squareis deathly silent.

Not a word is spoken. I'm convinced that some of us are not even breathing.

This is the waiting period. The dreaded anticipation as our Village Viscount prepares to deliver his annual sermon.

We'll cast a prayer to the monsters for allowing us to survive among them, bless the upcoming sacrifice, and beg the fates to choose the right Offerings.

To provide the wrong Offerings could result in the extermination of humankind. Or that's what our Village Viscount always says, anyway.

I swallow, the warm air causing my white gown to stick to my clammy skin. Summer is upon us, as evidenced by the blistering sun overhead. But that doesn't stop our Village Viscount from drawing out the ceremony.

He's standing up there in the shade provided by the overhang hovering above his stage, his podium a few feet in front of his tall, imposing frame.

There's a fan stirring a breeze near his suit-clad form, something I can see but not hear. And I can only see it because it's causing the wisps of his long blond hair to dance around his broad shoulders.

He's one of the oldest men in attendance, his Barons the only others close to him in age. It's rare for men to make it to over fifty in our village. Too many farming accidents. Too harsh a work schedule. Too limited on basic necessities.

I curl my hands into fists as several around me sway in discomfort. We're hungry and thirsty. Overheated. Scared.

Except my fear is different this year. I'm no longer afraid of being chosen; I'm afraid of not being chosen.

My jaw clenches as I stare our Viscount down. Screw. This.

I'm tired of this show of power. Everyone around me has their heads bowed, their respect devout.

But I can't quite bring myself to tuck my chin. I want to stare at him, to see him. And I want him to see me, too.

It's a bizarre urge. A forbidden desire. An angry reaction.

This man has the audacity to stand up there with his fans while the rest of us burn.

The fabric around my face feels heavy, my overheated skin sticking to the gauzy material.

My gaze narrows. I'm done.

Soon, my name will be called, and I'll be free. I have to believe that or I'll scream. There's no other option. Fate has to be on my side here.

And if it's not, then maybe I can do something to guarantee it. Push this Viscount a little more and force his hand. Make him choose me. Because a defiant villager makes an excellent Offering. Isn't that why broken rules earn more entries?

Testing the theory, I push the veil away from my head so that it's covering my hair and not my face. The men don't have to hide behind a curtain of white fluff, so why do I?

"Lina," Sage hisses under her breath. "What are you doing?"

"Defying the order," I reply while barely moving my lips.

A few around us stir, clearly having heard our conversation. They may not have understood the words, but the whispers were loud in this too-silent square.

The Village Viscount instantly finds me in the crowd, likely not because of my voice, but because of my movement.

He's too far away for me to properly discern his elderly features, but his attention is very clearly on me now.

What are you going to do? I demand with my eyes, even as my spine tingles with the need to submit. I've never been this bold. It feels reckless. Liberating. Terrifying.

He's surrounded by Village Protectors, the men all marked by their faceless appearances. Their hoods hide their identities. Some of them may actually be from the train behind the stage.

The Lightrailer.

It's a massive train with too-white metal siding, the pristine color reminding me of my dress.

How does it stay so clean? I wonder.

I've been in this gown for a mere three hours, and it already feels dirty. Yet that train is shockingly bright despite however many thousands of miles it's traveled.

I swallow, unease prickling my neck at the thought of boarding the Lightrailer. It's my goal. My desire. But that doesn't make it comforting.

My focus returns to the Viscount to find him still staring at me. Or that's the way it looks from way back here. There are over a thousand people in this town square with several thousand more around us.

The village always feels small until all of us congregate. We're so spread out, some of us living closer to the center—like me and Sage—and others expanding up and down the mountains. Several people here walked four to five miles this morning to reach the ceremony.

All without water or nourishment.

Yet you continue to stand there and lord your power over us, I think, glaring at the Viscount. Just get it over with.

I swear he narrows his gaze in reply. Maybe it's my imagination. Maybe I'm delirious from the heat and being forced to wait. Or maybe I'm seeing him clearly for the first time.

This man isn't worthy of my respect.

It's a stark realization that sends a jolt down my spine.

For twenty-two years, I've feared and worshipped this man. But now? Now I just want him to say my name and let me board that train.

What if he doesn't pick me from the Chalice? I wonder. What if I'm stuck here for another twelve months?

What if there are no Offerings this year?

Shit.

If I don't get on that train today, I?—

The Viscount steps forward, causing my thoughts to grind to a screeching halt.

Er, no. That's not the cause of the screeching…It was his microphone.

Everyone in the crowd seems to fight a wince, including me. But it's not so much the sound that has me wanting to cringe as it is the fact that the Viscount is still looking right at me.

He presses his hand to his ear in a strange gesture, his gaze flicking to the train station several yards behind him as his jaw visibly moves. The barest hint of his voice travels through the speaker, the deep baritone unintelligible. He's just out of reach of the microphone. But that tone is enough to send a chill through my entire being.

Have I made a mistake?I wonder. I've been bold. Too bold. What if there's something worse he can do to me?

I'm no longer a sheep. I've strayed from the herd. I don't care if they put my name in the Chalice. Hell, I want them to add my entries.

Does that make me a target for another sort of punishment?

The way the Viscount grins as he turns his attention my way again causes the answer, Yes, to whisper through my mind. Yes, Lina, there are worse punishments. Much worse. I can see it in the way the Viscount evaluates us all now, his expression almost sinister.

How have I never noticed this before?I marvel, blinking up at him like a deer lost in a sea of wolves. Because I've never really looked at him before.

We were taught to bow at a young age.

Submit.

Treat our elders with reverence.

"They've lived this long for a reason," my mother used to say softly. "Remember that. Respect that."

Alas, I lost my respect for our Viscount and his Barons when I received that note from my sister. Or rather, I stopped caring about respect.

I've been solely focused on being selected as an Offering. My name is in that Chalice probably close to three hundred times.

But there are a thousand other men and women in this town square now that are all eligible. Each of them has put their name in the selection pool at least once, too. Many of them will have more than one entry. It's the only way to survive here—bartering entries for resources.

"Welcome to the Day of the Choosing," the Viscount says, his hands spreading wide despite everyone else's gaze remaining on the ground. "Today we celebrate monsterkind and give tribute by selecting our Offerings."

He says that like we should all applaud.

No one does.

No one even moves.

It's like he's talking to a damn wall.

Yet he smiles anyway, clearly enjoying his podium and placement on that stage. I've never actually watched this part before. Never really paid attention. But the Barons behind him are grinning as well.

"For over three centuries, the monsters have been kind enough to allow us to live in harmony with their presence on this great earth. They have supplied us with the many resources we need to survive, ensured our good health, and gifted us with longevity. To thank them, we provide them with Offerings. Which makes this ceremony so incredibly important—we need to make sure we send the right Offerings."

He looks at me with those last two words.

Or maybe it simply appears that way since I'm the only one staring directly at him. But I can't seem to bow my head now, not even as nerves dance along my limbs and trickle down my spine. We're engaged in some sort of battle of wills that I can't afford to lose. Yet I'm not sure I can afford to win, either.

"Before we get started, I'd like to take a moment to thank monsterkind with a prayer. If you'll please close your eyes and join me in worship…" He trails off, his gaze still on me.

I don't close my eyes.

I don't even move.

And I swear I can hear his teeth grinding together from way back here.

What are you doing? I ask myself. This is a whole new level of defiance.

Over the last year, I've grown bolder in my rebellion, but it's all been for the sole purpose of being selected as an Offering.

However, this feels different. Necessary. And utterly insane.

The Viscount begins his prayer, the words ones I've heard uttered annually in this very square.

Except it's all different now. Because he's speaking them while staring at me. His voice sounds… deeper. Angrier. More intense.

Am I imagining it?

Shivers skate along my limbs, stirring goose bumps despite the balmy air. My stomach clenches in response to the sensation, my insides cold while sweat dots my brow.

The conflicting temperatures make me dizzy, causing me to nearly blink away from the Viscount. But then his final words anchor me in place.

"To the fates we pray that our Offerings are of the best quality, that monsterkind is appeased by our sacrifice, and that none of our brides or grooms let us down in any way."

It's the way he always ends his sermon.

Except this time, he adds, "And if, for whatever reason, the monsters are not pleased, we will make an example of the offending Offering to ensure the monsters are never displeased again."

Thatcauses a few members of the crowd to shift a little, their surprise evident in their not-so-subtle gasps.

What the hell does that even mean?I wonder, still staring at the Viscount.

But he simply smiles in response and claps his hands together. "Let's get started, shall we?" He's practically beaming now, causing every warning bell in my mind to blare with alarm.

And not just because he's finally looked away from me.

But because his last statement sounded like a threat.

One aimed directly at me.

My heart hammers in my chest, the thud, thud echoing in my ears.

It's loud.

Violent.

Overwhelming.

I can't think over the sound. All I can do is see. Observe. Watch as the Chalice is brought forward on its ceremonial platform.

It's so heavy that three Village Protectors have to wheel it across the stage.

Thud, thud.

The Viscount's mouth is moving again, but his voice sounds so far away. Like I'm ten feet underwater and he's growling from the surface.

Thud, thud.

I'm still the only one looking at him. No one else dares to disrespect him in such a way.

No one except me.

Thud, thud.

His hand goes toward the Chalice, his jawline hard as he digs deep for the name of the first Offering.

Did he say how many there will be?I wonder, my throat dry. Do I have a chance? Hell, do I want to have a chance?

His words linger in my head.

"We will make an example of the offending Offering." An example. An example. An example.

What does that mean?

Am I the example?

Because I'm staring at him? Or because I've drawn too much attention to myself?

I force my eyes to close, my need to take a deep breath overpowering whatever rebellious instinct overtook my senses. Focus, I tell myself. Focus on the ceremony.

At this rate, I won't even hear my own name over the beating of my heart.

If he calls my name at all,I think, swallowing. My heart pangs uncomfortably in my chest at the thought, my motivations over the last year coming to a grinding halt. I need to go to Monsters Night. I need to find Serapina.

But something about this feels incredibly wrong. Like I've somehow waltzed myself into a trap.

Impossible. It was Serapina's handwriting. I'm sure of it.

Except—

"Our first Offering," the Village Viscount announces, his voice finally piercing the thumping of my heart and causing my eyes to spring open. "Bartholomew Monroe."

Everyone remains still for a beat, then the crowd begins to part as a tall man with white-blond hair starts toward the stage. I don't recognize him, which isn't surprising. I really only know those who work in my garden district.

There are so many farms around here with huts that span nearly ten miles up and down the mountains on either side of the square, making it impossible for us all to regularly socialize. The Day of the Choosing is the only time we're all together like this.

Fingertips brush mine, causing me to jolt. Then I remember that Sage is beside me. She's been there the whole time. I lost sight of her presence after I removed my veil, my focus so resolute that all I could see was the Village Viscount.

His hand disappears into the Chalice once more as Bartholomew joins him on the stage. I can't see the blond man's expression, but I suspect he appears bored. Outward displays of emotion are not acceptable. Same with defiance.

The Village Viscount reads a second name, this time one of a female closer to the stage. All I can see is her dark hair since her veil and dress are covering everything else.

My nails bite into my palm as a third name is called—one that isn't mine.

If I could volunteer, I would. But that's not how things are done.

By the time a fifth name is called, I'm sweating for very different reasons than from the overbearing sun.

How many is he going to call?

Fuck, why wasn't I listening?

What happens if he doesn't say my name?

A sixth is chosen.

A seventh.

An eighth.

My stomach drops, my limbs beginning to shake.

He's not going to say my name.

Is that good or bad?

Bad. I need to find Serapina,I think as another part of me says, Good. I don't want to be an example.

"And our final Offering," the Viscount says.

Sage's palm grasps mine as he pulls one last name from the Chalice. I know she's hoping I've been spared. But I'm not. Or I am. A little. I… I'm conflicted.

The Viscount is confusing my priorities. I?—

"Alina Everheart."

My name echoes across the town square as the Viscount looks right at me. And this time, I know it's not because I'm the only one staring at him; it's because he knows my name.

Shit. I shouldn't have pulled off my veil…