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ORDER TO REPORT

Citizens of Erydia:

Upon receiving this letter, all girls who carry a mark or who exhibit any unnatural power are to report to their nearest temple for verification. After being assessed by videras, goddess-chosen girls will be transported to Gazda for training, assessment, and culling. The ten heirs are to report to their local temple no later than noon on Sacrit. Willful failure to report before the hour and date listed in this notice may result in forcible retrieval. The official culling of the ten heirs will begin on Sanctus Halletta and will end when nine sacrifices have been made. May the goddess be honored and may she bless our next queen.

Queen Viera Kevlar Warwick

***

Chapter One

Demarti Station, Varos.

The day before Sacrit.

We'd been halfway through the last checkpoint when the first announcement was posted. I didn't see the papers, but the news was on the lips of every panicked traveler we passed. There had been an assassination attempt at the palace. It had happened during the prince's eighteenth birthday celebration. Apparently, he was fine. The gunman was dead. There was no news on who the shooter was or where he'd come from.

Still, Erydia was rattled.

Some blamed it on the radicals, the rebel group known only as the Culled. Others blamed it on the rising tension with our neighboring country, Vayelle. As I stood in line to board the train heading into the Suri Gap, I didn't much care who had tried to shoot him. I just wished they'd have been successful.

Ambrose sidled closer to me in line, careful to keep his voice down as he said, "Up ahead, to the right." I followed his gaze, but the crowd was constantly moving and I saw nothing out of the ordinary.

There were too many possible dangers. With the Culling announcement only recently posted, there were watchful eyes everywhere. The Crown paid handsomely for information on goddess-touched girls, even when a Culling wasn't in session. Now that the prince had come of age, there would be hundreds of people looking for runaways. The smallest glimpse of the mark on my hand would have me sent straight to the palace.

I scanned the crowd ahead of us, searching for what my brother was talking about. Bodies pressed together, all of us stumbling, stepping on heels and tripping on travel bags. I wanted to ask him what I was supposed to be seeing, but I couldn't speak. I was supposed to be mute. It was all part of the ruse.

"In order for this to work, you need to do two things," my brother had said as he'd made this plan. "You have to look like a boy and act mute. If you can do that, we won't be questioned."

As it turns out, pretending to be mute was more difficult than pretending to be a boy. Being a boy meant a few cosmetic changes. I'd wrapped my breasts, changed my clothes, and when it hadn't felt like quite enough, I'd cut my hair.

My mother had cried when she'd seen what I'd done to myself. Although those tears hardly seemed to really matter, she'd been crying nonstop since my military draft letter had arrived over a week ago. First the draft letter and then the letter announcing the beginning of the Culling. They'd come one after the other, one on Monday and the next on Wednesday, as if the goddess had a sense of humor.

Mama had wept and I—I had just wanted to burn something. When that hadn't been an option, I'd cut my hair. Drastic, sure, but it had felt like the thing to do.

I hadn't even told anyone I was doing it.

I'd had long blonde hair for most of my life, but Erydian boys kept their hair short. And if I were to escape the Culling, I would need to be a boy. This had always been the plan. Ambrose and I had talked about it dozens of times. In fact, pretending to be a boy had been my mother's idea, a plot she'd formed from the moment I'd been born marked.

The Crown didn't come looking for boys.

So, I would be a boy—short hair and all.

I'd done what I'd thought I needed to do. And, if I were being honest, there was something liberating about stripping away that most feminine element of myself. If I failed, and the kingdom was going to have me, they would have me on my own terms.

I would go looking the way I wanted to. I would not be the lovely, pure object I was supposed to be. I would be wild—all sharp edges and bared teeth.

Being marked meant having to fight for the throne, the right to be the only heir left standing. And while that terrified me, shook me to my very core, if I was taken from my family and forced to fight, I refused to look as afraid as I felt. I would try to play the game on my own terms, whatever that meant.

So, I'd taken the kitchen shears and started hacking. My older brothers, Ambrose and Kace, had come back from a hunt to find me sitting on the floor of our cabin, holding the scissors in one hand and my mother's celluloid hand mirror in the other.

I'd made a mess of the job and Ambrose had needed to help me fix it. Even now, there were places where the hair was shorter than the rest. I'd cried when I'd finally seen the finished product, my wavy hair now only long enough to tuck behind my ears; but my tears had had little to do with my reflection.

It already felt a little like I was dying. Bits and pieces of myself were being stolen from me, taken away little by little. Even if I were to escape Erydia, I would have to lose myself to do so.

I would never see my mother again. I would never sit at our scuffed and stained kitchen table and bake sweet bread. I would never hear my brothers sing hunting songs, or listen to them recount the stories they'd heard in the market. I would be an outcast in a strange country, forever an exile to my homeland.

The Monroe I'd been for seventeen years was dying, and that death started with the cutting of my hair. I couldn't help but cry when I'd seen the evidence of that. Even if it's what I wanted—needed—to do.

"It doesn't look too bad," Ambrose had told me, his eyes shadowed in the reflection of the mirror. He had run a hand down the short length of it, tugging on a loose curl as he whispered, "And it'll help with everything."

Kace had just laughed and told me I looked like the fuzzy top of a dandelion. I didn't much care what I looked like as long as I got out of Erydia. But Kace didn't understand that, not really.

Kace saw opportunity where I saw only danger.

He had every intention of joining the Erydian military and he couldn't understand why Ambrose would feel differently. They'd fought when our draft letters had come and Ambrose had announced that he wouldn't report. Meanwhile, Kace would be one of the first in line at the war office when it opened tomorrow morning.

He'd wanted to enlist since he'd turned eighteen and become eligible, but my mother had begged him to stay home. She'd lost our father in the first war and didn't want to lose a son too. Now that there was no choice but to become a soldier, Kace was exactly where he'd always wanted to be—following in our father's footsteps.

He'd hugged me before I'd left this morning, holding me tight to his chest as he said, "You were made for the Culling. Maybe—Maybe you ought to go. I know it's a risk. A big one. But maybe you could win it. And think of what it could do for our family if you did. Think what it would do for mama. It would help her, Monroe."

But going wasn't an option. Neither was being a soldier. The Culling didn't take boys and the army didn't take girls.

I was a person built of lies and it seemed only fair to follow this path through to the end. My birth certificate claimed I was a boy, and I would cling to the protection my mother had offered me seventeen years ago. I would continue to play that part and use the lie she'd crafted to get myself out of Erydia before the Culling could begin.

And good goddess, we were so damn close.

"Do you see them?" Ambrose asked. He adjusted the pack he wore and nonchalantly nodded towards the front of the line. "Up ahead, to the right of the line, just by the gate."

I scanned the crowd but saw nothing.

There were too many people swarming the outer walls of the train station, mixing with those of us in line at the checkpoint. Some had stopped to read the posted train times or the paper announcements that were nailed to the wall every half hour. Others hurried past us, trying to make it to their own platforms, leather bags in hand and cloaks flapping against the tunneled breeze. Gossip spread unhindered. 

Yesterday at least two different girls had claimed to be marked. While I hadn't seen those broadcasts and hadn't asked my brother what they'd said, everyone else in Erydia had. They all whispered about girls with abilities like water and mind reading. Girls who could control people by just speaking. 

I tried not to listen to it. It wouldn't matter. I'd get out. 

I wouldn't have to face them. 

Either end of the station was open to the elements, allowing fresh air to pulse through and clear away the smell of cramped bodies and sweat. Even with the breeze, the platform was oppressively hot and my shirt clung to my back. It didn't help that I wore a jacket and hood, both of which might have been seen as strange for the end of summer, if it weren't pouring rain outside.

At the front of the line, the checkpoint attendants let three more people through the gate and we took a small step forward. Anxiety swelled and heat pushed at the inside of my skin, insistent. I rotated my wrist trying to dislodge the sudden panic eating at my resolve.

In moments like this, I'd always found it difficult to keep my ability contained. Inside, I was a flame, constantly burning, unable to settle or calm down. Sometimes that unnatural heat became too much and I had to siphon the power, get it out of my body.

It was always done in small ways, like lighting a candle or stoking the hearth. And always when my mother and brothers weren't looking. As if, by not showing them what I could do, we could all pretend it wasn't real. Just then, standing in the train station, what I was—who I was—had never felt more real.

My bones aches as that swirling heat in my gut pushed forward, bubbling towards a surface I couldn't quite see. I pushed it back down, mentally tethering it to my insides—like my ribs were a prison cell of bone, enough to cage something inherently uncageable.

I needed to keep it together. There were too many eyes, too many people who could notice.

We took another step forward.

Ambrose cupped the back of his neck and forced a smile, keeping his tone light as he explained, "There's a man, he's standing by the gate now. Really tall. He's got a gun. See him? There's a girl. She's one of them."

I saw her first.

She wore the navy-blue robes of a priestess, the sigil of the queen stitched onto the right shoulder in silver and white thread. She was young, around my age, maybe sixteen or seventeen, her coppery skin flushed, her hair braided in looping black coils atop her head. Beautiful. Terrifying.

I'd heard stories of girls like her, videras with goddess-given gifts. They were priestesses with the ability to sense marks without having to see them. Of course, there were some who couldn't do that, but if this girl could—

I opened my mouth to say something but then remembered I was supposed to be mute. Great.

Ambrose caught the look on my face and muttered, "Yes, them."

There was a soldier with her, a real bruiser looking type, with broad shoulders and large hands. As we watched, he pulled a young girl from the front of the line. The priestess moved towards her and the line progressed, obscuring my view of them.

My brother's throat bobbed as he sidestepped the line slightly, trying to get a better look at what was happening. Maybe they were offering blessings. I'd read books about priestesses who sold healing elixirs—water taken from the spring of Melloria or minerals gathered from the mines of Freia.

Maybe, just maybe, that's all it was.

I didn't dare look. I would have to stand up on my toes to see what was happening and I couldn't risk anyone noticing me. I needed to be uninterested and uninteresting.

But if she were a videra, she would know I was goddess-touched. There would be no avoiding it.

Ambrose must have seen something he didn't like, because he grabbed my wrist, his grip nearly painful as he muttered, "Just keep your head down. Don't draw attention to yourself."

But keeping my head down wouldn't do any good. Cutting my hair, changing my clothes, it was all for nothing if they were using videras. I couldn't do anything to keep her from seeing me. I might as well unwrap my hand and show my mark to everyone.

Across the station from us, a man was walking the length of the wall. He paused every few feet to nail a printed announcement to the wooden beams. As he worked, people flocked to the edges of the building, eager to read the next bit of news. Ambrose and I stayed where we were, moving steadily forward as people left the line.

"Did you hear?" Someone said from behind us, speaking to the gathered crowd. "I've just come from the ticket station and they're closing the border. The trainmaster says no one's going through."

A man joined the line again. "The queen has just declared war. All able-bodied men over the age of fifteen are supposed to report to the nearest pavilion immediately."

"Fifteen?" someone cried. "That's three years below the legal age—"

"And the draft letters said we had three weeks," a man in front of us said.

People began to argue. Terror surged as more information was gathered. People spoke of the things they'd heard. All of it adding to the fear and confusion.

There had been a terrorist attack, one person said. An assault on one of the temples near Nolajan. The number of dead varied depending on the teller. Three hundred, seven hundred, two thousand—it didn't really matter how many people had died. All that matter at that moment was that the transportation between my country and my sanctuary was being cut off.

I was going to be trapped here. I was going to die.

"The queen has declared war on Vayelle. The Suri Gap is being sealed," a woman said, her voice high with hysteria. I wanted to turn around. I wanted to tell her that it couldn't possibly be true.

I needed it to be a lie.

I needed—

"It'll be fine." Ambrose held tight to my wrist. His eyes were locked on the gate, where the soldier and priestess still stood. "It'll be fine, Monroe. They won't close the border right away. It'll take time."

We were only a few dozen feet away from the train. I looked down at the printed piece of paper in my hand. The corners were bent from my grip and the ticket was damp from sweat, the words running in places.

We were so close.

"It'll be fine," my brother repeated.

I wanted to believe he was right, but there was a tightness to his jaw, a waver to his gaze, that showed his uncertainty.

He looked at me, met my eyes. "It'll be fine. I promise."

If this checkpoint was anything like the last, the attendant at the gate would ask to see our identification papers. He would verify that the information printed there was true. If we were lucky, he would be busy and wouldn't bother to look too closely at the pictures printed there. He wouldn't ask me to lower my hood, wouldn't want to inspect my arms, my hands.

If my brother's plot worked, they would have no reason to question a poor, mute kid like me. It had worked at the last checkpoint, and at the ticket booth before that. But they hadn't had soldiers or videras. Before, I'd been trying to fool a tired, bored attendant and not a huntsman of the queen.

This girl would know.

She would know the thin plastic identification card I held was forged. The picture in the left-hand corner was of a blond boy with blue eyes and a stern expression. I'd never met him before, didn't even know his real name. But I was supposed to be him.

Even with my hair cut, my face dirty, and my clothes a size too big, I didn't really resemble him. I was thinner than he was, my face too angular, too feminine. His eyes were a dark shade of blue, mine were light brown. I had freckles on my nose. He had a dimple in his left cheek and I didn't.

But the worst part was the mark on my right palm.

I could cut my hair, change every outward detail of myself to conform to the image on the identification card, but I couldn't remove the goddess-given mark on my skin. I'd been born with it and it was mine—a permanent reminder of the destiny the goddess had crafted for me. The destiny I was going to escape.

Somehow.

Despite the rising frenzy and the rumors circulating about radicals, traitors, and wars, the line continued to move forward. Now we were only a few yards away from the gate, the priestess and the soldier were in clear view. I stayed close to Ambrose, careful to stay hidden behind the group of men in front of us.

There were low rumbles of conversation as news of the attack traveled through the station. Distrust ran rampant as travelers began to question those around them. People eyed one another. Mothers pulled their children closer.

The priestess nodded in greeting to the family nearest the gate. A woman, too old to be goddess-touched, approached her, carrying a little boy. There was an exchange and the soldier with the priestess seemed to grow uneasy with the conversation, he put a hand on the girl's shoulder and she shrugged him off. I watched her bow her head and speak a blessing over the child. The mother wept.

Another couple saw the interaction and hurried over, eager to have their own blessing. 

"Good," my brother said under his breath, "maybe that'll keep her busy."

There was noise from behind us as a station guard approached a family a few feet back and asked to see their cards. I tensed, but Ambrose didn't react, he only shot me a small smile.

Up ahead, the soldier was shooing away the small crowd that had formed around the priestess. She offered them all blithe smiles and muttered apologies as she moved back to stand near the gate. The man adjusted the gun in his hands and nodded in the direction of the line, redirecting her attention to their task.

I was close enough to see the dark brown of her eyes, notice the tiny silver beads braided into her hair. The bangles on her wrists jingled slightly as she lifted a hand and pulled her hood up, so it covered the top of her head and made the royal crest on her shoulder more visible. I felt, more than saw, her look in my direction.

The world seemed to focus, turning from dull chaos to needle-sharp in an instant. I held my breath, tried not to move. Sensing her gaze, my brother stepped forward, just a few inches, enough that his shoulder partially concealed her view. Three heartbeats passed, and then the priestess looked away; her attention drawn to the new set of travelers at the gate.

The station attendants examined their tickets and identification cards, before ushering four more people through the checkpoint. The line moved. Only two more groups and it would be our turn.

I was so distracted by the priestess and the soldier, that I didn't notice as the guard moved up the line toward our backs. He addressed the group directly behind us and the sound of his deep voice near my ear startled me enough that I let go of my train ticket. Without thinking, I cursed under my breath.

Ambrose stiffened next to me, his grip on the strap of his bag growing white-knuckled. I felt the guard shift his gaze to us as I crouched down, looking for my lost ticket amongst the bags and mud-crusted boots of the platform.

The guard said, "Can I help you two with something?"

Ambrose was quick to respond. "No, sir. My brother just dropped his ticket."

I stayed where I was, awkwardly crouched on the ground, one hand pressed to the cold tile floor, the other absently feeling for the lost ticket. A large gust of wind pushed through the tunnel of the station, caressing my sweat-damp skin. I turned my attention to my search, but saw nothing.

Cold panic settled in the pit of my stomach.

Above me, Ambrose and the guard still spoke, their conversation muffled by my focus on trying to locate the ticket amongst the crowd. There was a second gust of wind and then—just as I was about to stand up—I saw it. The silver edges of the paper glinting in the low lantern light as it skidded away on the breeze.

I leaned forward, onto my hands and knees, reaching for it, but stopped as a boot came down, pinning the paper to the pavement. I didn't have to look, didn't have to follow the line of those dark blue robes to know who it was. Without a word, she bent down and plucked my ticket from beneath her boot.

The priestess didn't stand up right away, just stayed crouched there at eye-level with me. I could feel her gaze, feel her seeing the thing I didn't want her to see—my damnation, my blessing, my birthright. The hidden mark on my skin.

I'd never been the sort to pray, but I prayed then.

I heard my brother make a sound, a little stunned cry, as if he hadn't seen the girl approach. And like that, the world was loud again. It was the roaring of a million fires, the rustle of dry leaves. The girl stood and looked at the soldier. I stayed where I was, too afraid to move, as the man approached.

He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. Ambrose yelled something, a burst of anger and fear. I tried to turn around, to look at him, but the man held me tight.

Fire licked at my flesh, pushed hot against the inside of my skin.

I could fight. I could fight and maybe, just maybe, I could get away. I turned, pulled back my arm, aimed an elbow at the soldier's face. It was clumsy and the blow was uncertain, he dodged it and spun me, yanking both of my arms behind me.

His boot hit my back hard enough to knock me to my knees. Then the barrel of his gun was at my head.

For a moment, I thought he might actually shoot me—and I was oddly relieved. Maybe that would be better, quicker, than the Culling. If I died here, I wouldn't be a killer. I wouldn't have to be a monster. I would just be dead.

But the priestess stepped forward, her hands outstretched, stopping him from pulling the trigger. I think, maybe, I hated her the most for that.

There was a loud grunt as Ambrose punched one of the nearest guards and darted forward, trying to get to me. More guards converged, grabbing his arms and wrists. The soldier standing over me caught the movement and turned, aiming his gun at my brother instead. People yelled and scattered away from us.

At the sight of the gun, Ambrose grew still.

"Please!" It was the first thing I said, the only word I could get out of my mouth.

I didn't know what I meant by it or who it was aimed at.

My brother opened and closed his mouth, trying and failing to conjure words. He stepped forward and I knew he would continue to fight for me. I knew he would get himself killed to keep me from this. But I couldn't let him.

I shook my head and forced my voice to remain even as I said, "I'm fine. I want to go to the Culling. It's the right thing to do."

Lies. I am a girl made of lies.

My legs shook as I stood up. I forced myself to reel in my ability, pull it tight to my spine, control it. I wanted to burn everything, to turn myself to ash. But I would not.

Ambrose tried to shake off the hands that held him, but more just seemed to appear.

We were stuck. There was nowhere to go.

The soldier called to someone else. He kept his gun aimed at my brother and his attention on me as another group of men approached. Someone said something, words I barely registered as hands took hold of my wrists, as someone pulled me back by the shoulder.

The words came again: "Be gentle with her." It was the priestess who spoke. She stepped back, making room as I was hauled away from my brother, from the new life I'd been so close to stealing.

Then I was being passed to other strange hands.

Ambrose was still yelling, but I couldn't hear him over the pounding in my chest, the ringing in my ears. People whispered things as I was ushered past, their words mixing together as hands reached for me, grasping at my clothes, any exposed skin—

Goddess-touched.

Marked.

Blessed.

The future queen.

No. That wasn't what I wanted.

I dug my boots into the ground, tried to turn back, tried to take it all back.

But it was too late.

An arm snaked around my waist as I struggled, attempting to fight the way Ambrose had taught me. I summoned flame. I kicked and thrashed, but the hold was too strong. I couldn't free myself.

Cloth was pressed to my nose and mouth. Chemicals burned at my throat as I inhaled, attempted to scream. But I couldn't make a sound. My chest was hot—like fresh coals. Like the heat of the oven on baking days. I blinked, trying to see through an onslaught of tears, past the dark spots in my vision.

I think he was still yelling for me.

I fought back one more time, tried to summon fire to flesh again—I failed. My head swam, dipped down, and then I was sinking, drowning, gone.