Benson Homestead

Three days before Sacrit

I'd only just finished at the pump and was heading back to the house when I heard the crunch of tires on the gravel lane. Shit. I had enough sense to dart behind the nearest shelter—the outhouse—but as soon as I was there, my mind went blank.

I'd hidden, but now what? Where could I go with so much open space between where I stood and the main house? And it wasn't like I could really go inside either—what if whoever was in the automobile wanted to go into the house for something? They'd see me. They'd ask questions.

I needed . . . I needed to . . .

My heart plummeted, my insides doing a wicked backflip as I peered out from my hiding spot. Dust rose in a swirling cloud as an automobile headed our way. I scanned what I could of the yard, looking for my brothers.

Bad. This was bad.

Warning bells pealed; red flags waved.

What if they found me? That would almost be worse, because then they'd wonder why I'd hidden at all. Then, if they were anyone important—and they had to be, if they were driving an automobile in Varos of all places—they'd ask about my identification card. Goddess knows, they would see some pretty huge discrepancies if they did.

I was very obviously a blond, seventeen-year-old girl and not the boy my card claimed I was. And that discovery would lead to questions and those questions would lead to examinations. And if they noticed the mark on my hand . . .

The outhouse creaked as I leaned against it, careful to stay in the shadows. The rumble of the automobile's engine died out just as the front door to the house squealed open on unoiled hinges. My oldest brother, Ambrose, shouted a muffled greeting, but the words were lost in the sharp clack of the screen door slamming shut behind him as he exited the house.

My other brother, Kace, walked out of the barn to my far left, his brows lifted in surprise at the vehicle parked outside our ramshackle house. He headed toward Ambrose, but stopped in his tracks when he caught sight of me. For a moment we just stared at each other, both of us ensnared by curiosity and fear.

The stillness of the moment died as the man in the automobile called out, "Mr. Benson, I come with a summons."

Kace's eyes widened at the words, and he took off again. I glanced around the other side of the outhouse and then abruptly darted back into the safety of my hiding spot. A magistrate. There was a magistrate here—on our farm. Only a few feet from me. Bile rose in my throat and my heart became a caged bird in my chest—the pressure of each beat more valuable and more erratic as I considered every terrible thing that might involve a magistrate.

The distance enveloped the rest of the man's words as he climbed from the automobile and then began to, presumably, explain to my brothers what the hell he'd come for. I dared another look just in time to see Ambrose step forward to take a small bundle of letters from the magistrate's outstretched hand.

The magistrate cleared his throat and pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit. He dabbed at his shining forehead, his voice growing loud with annoyance as he said, "Hot summer Varos is having. If the rains don't come soon, crops will suffer."

I knew exactly what he meant by that: if the crops suffered, the queen's coffers would suffer. You couldn't tithe the dead.

My throat grew tight at the implication. More than just the crops would suffer without rain. My family could starve or lose the farm. We relied on our crops to earn enough money to keep us alive. My mother's job as a midwife was rarely paid with coin, and my brothers' apprenticeships in town hardly even made enough to keep the livestock fed—much less put food in our bellies.

In recent years, the government hadn't been as tolerant with their collection of county tithe as they had in the past. And the tithe in Varos would come due in early fall whether we had the money or not.

"I will pray for rain," the magistrate said.

"Seems our prayers are as empty as our pockets these days." Ambrose tucked the letters into the back pocket of his trousers and fiddled with the strap of his suspenders. I winced at his boldness as he continued. "Too much rain and they drown. Too much sun and they fry. Varos always places its bets in extremes. Always too hot or too cold. Too wet or too dry. It's the people who lose every time."

Kace ran a hand through his light-brown curls and said, "Let's pray the goddess sees fit to give us both rain and shine in moderation."

I smiled to myself. The predictability of the response was enough to ease the tension in my body. Kace was nothing if not a kiss ass to government officials.

He was always so good at playing pious when it suited him, but I knew he visited brothels and did all manner of temple-forbidden things. Despite how he acted, I knew he couldn't name half of the Sanctus names or recite any of the official remembrances. But then, neither could I, so I supposed that didn't mean much.

In our defense, Mama wasn't religious at all and hadn't raised us to be. While I was fine being a little heathen, Kace had aspirations of becoming a royal guard one day—and, according to him, they were required to be pious, sanctimonious little shits. I didn't think he needed to practice that, but there he was, kissing ass like it was his job.

The magistrate tucked his handkerchief into his pocket and put his bowler hat back in place. "May the goddess be honored in your harvest."

"May the goddess be honored," Kace returned.

The man turned to leave, but he made it only two steps before Ambrose said, "Excuse me, Magistrate, sir? While I have you here: has there been any official word on when this part of Varos might be moved to higher lands? We've never had water so close to our property before. I worry that with the rains coming we will find ourselves overrun."

Whatever the magistrate said in response was covered by the rumble of the engine as he climbed into the vehicle and started it. It's bad news. I could tell by the way Ambrose fiddled with the rolled cuffs of his shirt; the way he seemed to hold himself back from arguing. His hands opened and closed at his sides.

Let him leave, I begged silently. Let him get away from here before he decides to be curious.

And what was there to say? Each year the eastern floodlands took more and more Varos territory. The sea was literally washing away our county, bit by bit. And each passing year brought the coastline closer to our farm. If we didn't get the official clearance to move, either to a higher spot in Varos or to a different county, our property would eventually be drowned, and we would be homeless. Hundreds of others had already suffered that fate and the queen had done nothing to save them.

I stayed hidden behind the outhouse as the automobile puttered its way down the path to our house and around the far tree line. Ambrose's back was to me as he watched the man drive away, but once he was gone, Kace turned and met my gaze. He looked pointedly at the letters sticking out of the back of Ambrose's trouser pocket and raised a brow.

Dread pooled in the pit of my stomach, turning my mouth to cotton and my throat into a vise. I didn't want to know what those letters said, and yet, something in me—some deep, instinctual thing—already suspected what they would say. The Culling.

Magistrates rarely left the county centers and markets. They weren't errand boys or lackeys. If the queen had sent a letter with this man, then it could only mean one thing: the prince had come of age, and the Culling was beginning.

It was archaic and yet a custom treasured by so many—mostly, I'd imagine, by those it would not directly affect. It was a spectator sport. Something to bring just a touch of excitement to the dreary lives of the Erydian people. The Culling promised the beginning of a new era. A new reign.

Only ten girls in all of Erydia were goddess-touched and capable of fighting in that competition. And I was one of them.

These ten girls would be forced to fight to the death for the Crown. By the end of it there would be nine bodies and a new queen on the throne. The tradition occurred once every thirty or forty years. It was supposed to provide us with a strong queen, one who could guarantee that our country would remain safe from our enemies beyond the mountains.

Or so the temple taught. And, truly, what truth was there in what the temple said? Enough truth to make them right about one thing: the ten heirs were goddess-chosen. All ten girls would possess supernatural abilities. They always did. It was the abilities that made the temple believe that the Culling was the only way to choose a queen. It was also said to be the only way to ensure that the new queen's reign wouldn't be questioned. After all, there was no better opening statement than one coated in the blood of nine other people.

Coated in my blood.

I held my breath, my fingers numb around the handle of the water bucket, as I waited for Kace or Ambrose to call out to me. But I had been forgotten in favor of the letters. By the time the sound of the automobile had faded completely, my brothers were already walking into the house.

Their muttered conversation was turning loud and angry as I ditched my bucket and went after them. The front door was ajar, and I didn't bother to close it behind me as I stepped into the cramped kitchen. Even with the windows and doors open, the summer heat was stifling. The cotton of my dress clung to my back with sweat as I edged toward where my brothers stood by the kitchen table.

"What did he want?"

Ambrose turned toward me. "Don't you have chores to finish, Monroe?" My blood boiled at his tone. Kace opened his mouth to speak, but Ambrose cut him off. "Don't both of you have chores to finish?"

With two opinionated brothers and close quarters, I'd witnessed my fair share of fistfights—I'd started my fair share of fistfights—but the look on Ambrose's face said that it wouldn't be wise to push him today. Usually, I'd listen to those cues. We were friends, not just siblings, most days. And I had his back, especially when Kace poked at him and tried to start shit. But I didn't like being spoken to like a child. And . . . I was curious.

Kace and I exchanged a glance. If we both push him, he'll have no choice but to cave.

"The rains are coming; we need to prepare," Ambrose said, oblivious to our silent plotting.

"Yes, the rains are coming. But, while we wait, what are the letters about?" I asked.

"Nothing that concerns you." Ambrose nodded to the still-open door. "It's a conversation for later. There are things to be done, and the sun is leaving us."

Kace bristled. "To hell with the sun and rains. Let me see the letter."

A sudden swell of heat pushed at my skin, a warmth that had nothing to do with the stifling temperature of the house. It was a slithering sort of anxiety that I knew could turn to true flame if I willed it. My ability to conjure fire, and the cost of my goddess-given gift, was what pushed me to ask, "Is it the Culling?"

"Chores," Ambrose said. "Now. I'm not arguing with either of you about—"

"If it's the Culling, I deserve to know."

"One of them is addressed to me," Kace blurted. "The magistrate said there was one for each of us."

So, maybe it wasn't the Culling then. That news would probably be directed to the whole family. The government wasn't aware of who was goddess-touched. They wouldn't send a letter to each child in the family just to announce the competition and gather the girls.

Ambrose pointed to the door again. "Finish your work, Monroe. Mama will be tired enough without having to cook dinner and tend to your chores too. We aren't dealing with any of this now."

Kace held out his hand. "You aren't the damn king, Ambrose. I don't have to listen to you. Neither does Monroe. Now give me my letter."

That tight coil of power in my gut seemed to relax. The tight chains I'd used to bind it to myself—keep it contained—seemed to unwind at the realization that I might still be safe. If the letter wasn't a Culling announcement, then I had nothing to worry about. But curiosity still prevailed.

"I have plenty of time before Mama's back. I'm sure it won't take me all afternoon to read one letter." I held out my own hand. "If there's one for me, give it here."

Kace smirked, pleased to find the two of us on the same side for once. Without a word, Ambrose brushed past us and out the door.

"Good idea," Kace called after him. "Run from your problems, that's always worked before."

I caught up to Ambrose just before he got to the barn. I didn't say anything as I darted behind him and snatched the bundle of letters from his back pocket. I was already three steps away by the time he realized what I'd done.

"Good goddess, Monroe."

He came after me, but rather than grab for me, he swatted for the letters. I sidestepped him and twirled out of his reach, holding the letters in front of me. Before he could make a second lunge for them, I rotated my wrist and called fire to flesh.

He only had time to yell, "Don't—" before my entire fist was wreathed in flame.

The fire seemed to swell in my chest—pushing out every other thought until I was nothing but flame. I felt alive. Like I was my fullest self when I burned like this.

And it had been weeks. With my mother always around, I'd resorted to small actions—invisible hands to coax the flames in the stove higher, a stray candle lit, or a cup of coffee warmed. I'd learned quickly that siphoning the heat from my veins was a nearly unnoticeable action if I was clever and careful—it was something I could do without upsetting or worrying my mother.

But, goddess, I'd missed the feel of flame on my skin.

Ambrose cursed under his breath.

"They aren't burned. I won't let the fire touch them," I said, rotating the bundle so he could see that the fire was only wreathed around my wrist. "But I could."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Wouldn't I?"

My brother crossed his arms over his chest. "If you burn them, I won't tell you what they say."

"Kace heard the magistrate. He knows what they're about at the very least. He'll tell me." I swallowed. "But I'd rather hear it from you."

We stared at each other for a long moment.

"Fine. Read them then." Ambrose threw up his hands and turned away from me. "You're bound to hear about it anyway."

My fire fizzled out as he continued into the barn without another word. The humor and teasing from earlier dissipated just as quickly.

Ambrose tended to be overprotective, especially where I was concerned, but this—the fear on his face had nothing to do with me. I looked at the letters in my hand. One for Ambrose, one for Kace, and one for me. All of them from the war office.

My stomach bottomed out. Oh, goddess.

"Ambrose!" I hurried after him. His back was still to me, his attention on the sacks of grain slumped against the far wall of the barn as I said, "What is this? What—"

"Read it."

I shuffled through the three letters until I found the one addressed to me. The wax of the royal seal cracked under my fingers as I tore the letter open and began scanning the words. Two lines in and I was barely processing them. The world around me faded, as if I were being sucked into a deep, dark hole in the ground.

This was a declaration of war and a call to action. Drafted. My brothers and I had been drafted. Erydia was going to war against Vayelle—again—and every able-bodied man over the age of seventeen was expected to fight.

"We've barely recovered from the last war and it's been almost twenty years," I breathed.

"I was in the market with Ellora this morning when the announcement was posted. It was all anyone could talk about. The paperboys were yelling it on every street corner. I didn't . . . I didn't think the war office would move so quickly. I figured we at least had a few weeks before we would need to report."

I read the letter again, and then a third time. "It says here we have five days— You have five days. You and Kace."

Not me.

Although the letter in my hand held my name, it was addressed to Monroe Benson, the boy. The letter was addressed to the lie my mother had created. I couldn't go to the war office without revealing myself.

"What . . . What will happen if I don't show up?" I asked.

Ambrose ran a hand through his blond hair, mussing the short curls. While we shared the same sun-warmed skin and brown eyes, there was a darkness in his gaze that I didn't possess, a heaviness that came from being the head of our household. It made him appear older than his twenty-three years.

"The magistrate said they'd be investigating any deserters. If you don't show, they could come looking."

"Mama . . . Mama and I will have to run. Or . . ." I swallowed.

Ambrose slipped the remaining envelopes from my hand. He turned back to the sacks of grain as he said, "Let me think on it. Go do your chores."

"Why not let Kace have his letter?"

"Because I know what he'll say. I've been listening to him gush about joining the army for as long as I can remember. I don't have the energy to listen to him talk about it. He heard the magistrate same as I did. He knows there's a war coming. He can have the letter and start planning tonight. Between the concern over you and the rains, Ellora, and Mama," he shook his head, "I have too many things to worry about. I don't have space for his happiness."

"How will we survive if you and Kace are gone and we can't hunt? What will we do about the tithe or the floods or . . . ?"

His expression fell slightly and I regretted saying anything at all. "Chores, Monroe. We'll worry about all of that later."

"But—"

His voice turned sharp. "You wanted to know what the letter said, now you do. There's nothing to be done about it. We can talk tonight. I've got to feed the chickens, and you need to finish dinner and start heating water for the baths. Mama will be home shortly. If she . . ." He sighed. "If she doesn't know about the draft yet, she will soon enough. She'll be upset and I can't— Monroe, I can't . . . I don't want you to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid."

I just want to do something. Anything. I want to crawl out of my skin, to be more than I am. There was always this unspoken assumption in our family that because I was a marked girl and had been hidden away from the world, I couldn't possibly understand or help carry our family's troubles. And it just wasn't true. I was the reason we were in this desolate county to begin with, and I never went a day without blaming myself for it.

All I wanted was to be a part of the solution, but I was once again a part of the problem.

"I'm not afraid," I said again.

His smile was sad. "Well, I'm glad one of us isn't."

I was almost outside when he called back to me. "Monroe?"

I turned, my fingers tight against the chipped paint of the door. "Yes?"

"It's going to be all right." Something in his voice told me that the words were as much for him as they were for me.

I nodded, trying to push down the tidal wave of anxious fire in my blood as I said, "Of course, it will."