Imellia Station, Gazda.

Sacrit.

The train had rocked and swayed all night. While the world outside slept, I was hurtling faster and faster towards my supposed destiny. I wasn't ready for any of it. I didn't know what lay at the other end of this journey. A palace? A prince? My death? No one had said anything to me or even bothered to scold me for trying to run.

The morning of Sacrit dawned quietly, sinking from night to day with such fluidity that I barely noticed it was happening. Breakfast was the only sign that a new day had started. I hadn't asked to leave the compartment, but the guard stationed outside my door was my ever-present answer.

I was here until they said I wasn't anymore.

After breakfast, I dressed in the simple navy-blue day dress I'd been given. It fit better than Uri's clothes had but it still wasn't exactly my size. Even so, it was the prettiest dress I'd ever seen, much less worn. The stitching along the waistband was elaborate, which was a shame since the dark thread was nearly unnoticeable against the cotton of the dress. This was the sort of craftsmanship that would take weeks for me to do by hand.

According to one of the guards, we were minutes away from the station in Gazda. I was told that when we arrived, I would be escorted to a waiting press conference where I would need to publicly announce myself into the Culling. No one told me what I was meant to do after that announcement.

Would the Culling start then? I didn't know how any of this worked. Was it a free for all? I'd always heard about the arena fights, but maybe that had just been for the last few girls standing—I couldn't remember.

"Are you ready?"

I straightened, only halfway through slipping on my shoes, and found a thin, red-headed boy watching me. He was wearing a grey suit, the fabric heavy and neatly pressed. The shirt underneath was crisp white, the tie a striped pattern of navy blue and silver.

While his clothes were beautiful, all clean lines and sharp angles, his posture was casual, his shoulders slumped, his hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. It was so boyish, so regular, that I was hit with a wave of homesickness. This boy stood the way Kace would, one shoulder a bit higher than the other, chin tilted down, smile askew.

But this boy wasn't my brother.

There was a handgun strapped to his hip and he had the jacket of his suit hitched up so it was clearly visible. I didn't know if the view of the weapon was supposed to act as a threat or an assurance. It might have made me nervous, except that everything about him was unassuming and relaxed, almost to the point of laziness.

I finished with my shoes and stood, straightening my dress before I looked up at him. He raised an eyebrow and nodded in appreciation, as if he didn't notice my cut hair or the way the bodice of the dress hung a bit too loose.

"You look ready enough." He stepped back into the hall outside and tilted his head back, gesturing for me to follow. "Come along then."

I took a step toward him and then paused. "Um, excuse me?"

He had already disappeared from my sight but he backtracked so he was standing in the doorway again. "Yes?"

My mouth was dry, the sour taste of the morning's breakfast still lingered. I forced myself to stand straighter. "Who exactly are you?"

"Ah," his mouth spread into a large, toothy grin. It was oddly charming and still inherently unnerving. "Yes. I almost forgot." He stepped forward to meet me, so close that his shoes bumped against mine. His hand slipped from his pocket and snaked forward. "Hugo Dellacov, at your service."

I shook his hand. "Monroe Benson."

He pulled his fingers back and stuffed them into his pocket again. "Yes, so I've heard. You're here to participate in the Culling." He said this simply, like it wasn't a statement that changed everything for me.

When I didn't respond, he stepped backward again, heading for the hall. He was about to leave, expecting me to follow, but I interrupted him. "Mr. Dellacov," I said, "I still don't know who you are."

"You can just call me Dellacov. And I'm the Captain of the Royal Guard." His smile grew as he said, "That good enough?"

I nodded.

He jerked his head in the direction of the hall. "Well, hurry it up before you make us both late."

He greeted the guards as we passed them, calling them by name. I counted two pairs, one set in front of my door and one in front of a compartment down the hall. I slowed my step, trying to get a look through the frosted glass of that door. When I couldn't see anything, I hurried to catch up with Dellacov.

"Is that where Uri is staying?"

He paused, stopping so quickly I almost ran into him. Dellacov turned around and looked at me, his eyes narrowing as he asked, "How do you know about her?"

I stepped back from him, suddenly regretting mentioning it. "She came to my compartment last night."

He clicked his tongue and his gaze drifted from my face to the guarded door. "Huh, is that so?" He didn't wait for my answer, just strolled past me to Uri's door. He nodded to the guards standing watch and, unceremoniously, flung the door open.

I heard Uri make a sound from inside, a high-pitched yell and what sounded like a muffled curse. Dellacov said something to her, his voice too hushed for me to hear.

She responded loudly with, "Asshole!"

Seconds later, Dellacov came stumbling into the hall pursued by a high-heeled shoe that caught him square in the middle of the chest. Uri followed, hobbling on one heel and one barefoot. She looked like she might actually kill him.

"How dare you barge your way into my compartment without an invitation." She pulled the other shoe from her foot and chucked it. Dellacov dodged and it hit one of the guards in the shoulder. Uri froze, placed a hand to her chest and addressed the guard. "I'm really sorry, Bloxton. I didn't mean to hit you. Please accept my sincerest apologies for any damage done."

Bloxton didn't say anything, just stooped, picked up the shoe and handed it back to her. Uri smiled gratefully, nodded in acknowledgment, and then hurled the heel directly at Dellacov's face. He managed to knock it off course but the heel still managed to graze his jaw, leaving a thin scratch.

Uri bent down and gathered both her shoes.

Dellacov cursed, rubbing at his face as he muttered, "You are the most ridiculous, obnoxious, ludicrous, abhorrent—"

"Now you're just listing words trying to sound smart," she said, jabbing a heel in his direction.

"I'm not trying," Dellacov said, his voice a bit whiny as he pulled his fingers away to find the smallest trace of blood. "I am smart. How could you break the rules and approach one of the Culling girls? Good goddess, Uriel it's against the rules and you know it."

Uri's eyes landed on me for the first time. She waved, just the slightest wiggle of her fingers. Dellacov rolled his eyes and snapped his fingers in her face to regain her attention.

Uri crossed her arms over her chest. "Keep your hands to yourself."

Dellacov snatched one of the heels from her hands and said, "Maybe try keeping your shoes to yourself."

She lowered her voice, but not so much that I couldn't hear as she hissed, "Show some respect or I'll have you demoted."

He rolled his eyes. "Demoted?"

"Yes, demoted," Uri said. "As in knocked down a peg. Put in your place. Brought down from your too high horse."

"Yes, thank you very much. I know what it means."

Uri made a crude gesture and grabbed the shoe back. Using the wall to keep her balance, she slipped both heels back on and quickly buttoned the delicate top straps. Once she was standing again, she smoothed her blue dress into place and shot me a wide grin.

"Did you sleep well?"

I felt both their eyes on me as I answered, "Yes, I slept fine. Thank you."

"Well, I didn't." Uri walked to meet me, both her guards and Dellacov in tow. "I never sleep well on trains. They rock too much. I spent most of my night with my head in a bowl."

"But it was an expensive, pretty porcelain bowl," Dellacov muttered.

"Keep smarting off and I'll make sure your only job is to empty it." Uri turned to face him, her smile that same sly grin it had been when I'd met her the night before. "Do you understand me, Dellacov?" When he didn't acknowledge her right away, her voice rose, "Dellacov?"

He pursed his lips. "Yes."

She crooned, "Yes, what...?"

"Yes, Your Royal Highness."

The words stole my breath away, leaving me asphyxiated on the realization of who she was. Uri saw my expression and looped her arm through mine. She patted my hand consolingly. "I suppose it's time for formal introductions. I'm Princess Uriel Isadora Colette Warwick. But you may call me Uri, everyone of any importance does."

"You aren't a goddess-touched girl." The words fell out of my mouth, part question and part statement.

Princess Uri started walking towards the exit of the train car, pulling me by the arm alongside her. "No," she said after a second, "No, I'm not. But I ended up on a train with you by chance. I saw them bring you past my room. You looked..." she trailed off, her eyes settling on the thick metal door leading off the train. She came to a stop and turned to face me. "I just wanted to help you. That's all. I apologize for misleading you."

"It's fine." I shrugged, unsure what else to say.

Princess Uri smiled. "It isn't fine. Queens don't say things like that in response to apologies." She sighed. "We never want to unintentionally condone bad behavior."

She reached forward and adjusted the folded collar of my dress, making the curved fabric lay flat. When she was satisfied, she held me at arm's length and looked me up and down.

Uri smiled. "It's better to accept an apology than brush it aside. Does that make sense?"

I nodded. "I accept your apology, Princess Uriel."

She grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze. "Uri will do."

***

Dellacov stood next to me, his hand on my arm, as Uri and her guards exited the train. "In future," he said, "you should walk no less than two steps behind any member of the royal family."

"But Uri—"

"Princess Uriel doesn't have to follow court etiquette. For some reason—and I can't begin to tell you why—people let her do whatever the hell she wants. You, on the other hand, should do what I say."

I just nodded in response.

I was far enough back from the door that I couldn't see anything aside from the glare of morning light. Around us, a crowd cheered and Uri, no more than a dark elegant silhouette, waved to them. She was rehearsed, every action stiff and refined—it might have even looked natural if I hadn't just seen her throwing shoes.

She paused on the top step and turned back in my direction. Although the sun was too bright to actually see her expression, I knew she was smiling. Red lipstick would be framing teeth that were too straight, offsetting cheekbones that were high and sculpted, and accentuating a chin that was certainly held at the perfect angle.

If the next queen was meant to be anything like her, I couldn't imagine myself taking on that role. I didn't have that in me—not in my best shirt and not in this dress. Because it didn't come from the clothes.

Even without a goddess-touched gift, Uri wore her power like a perfume. It had struck me before she even touched me or said a word. It was potent enough that, even with her kindness, I'd mistaken her as an enemy, a rival in the Culling. She was lovely and terrifying—and I was grateful that she wasn't marked.

The princess lingered on the steps, waving and smiling to the crowd gathered in the train station. Dellacov's grip on my arm loosened. His eyes followed every step she took. The stern expression of his face gone, his mouth parted and his face slack, morphed into almost dumbstruck admiration.

He saw me looking and grimaced, ducking his head to try to hide his expression as he said, "She's slowing everything down." The words were weak, lacking any real bite.

Did she know that he liked her? I wanted to ask. I wanted to know if she kind of scared him too. Judging from the heat spreading across his ears and cheeks, I would say she did.

"Alright," Dellacov said, breaking me out of my thoughts, "she's off the steps. It's your turn."

My hands shook. "Do I have to wave?"

"No," he said, adjusting the cufflinks on his suit, "in fact I would suggest keeping your head down. I'll keep a hand on your back. We'll walk right through together."

"And at the press conference—?"

"Don't worry. It's the easiest part of the whole Culling. All you need to do is read off a little script and then you're finished." He met my eyes as a thought occurred to him. "Shit. You can read, can't you?"

"Yes, of course, I can read." I wrapped my arms around myself and took a deep breath.

What would happen if I vomited all over Dellacov's glossy shoes? Uri would probably laugh. He might kill me.

Dellacov let go of my arm and rested a steady hand against my back. "The crowd will cheer. Just walk straight ahead. Do not acknowledge anyone. Now isn't the time for pleasantries."

And with that we were moving.

I'm not sure what I expected. This wasn't something I'd dreamed about. I didn't know how to be like Uri, how to exude power and grace the way she so naturally did. But I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and pretended I was a performer—a girl in a traveling circus.

Not goddess-touched. Not a possible sacrifice. Not a potential queen.

Just Monroe Benson.

I wanted to believe that my reception would be as warm as Uri's had been, but there was a certain stillness to everything. As if they all held their breath and waited—tentative. I saw the banners at the back of the crowd first, the signs scrawled in red paint. I couldn't read them, we were moving too quickly; but the message, the haphazard scrawl of the words, seemed aggressive.

There was a rustle within the crowd, people moving aside to let others through. People began to chant something, the words tinged with an anger I couldn't understand. Dellacov cursed under his breath. "Walk faster."

I'd almost made it halfway through the crowd when a man to my left yelled something incoherent, but obviously crude. People around him joined in. Some booed and hissed. A woman spat at me.

Dellacov shoved me forward, trying to angle himself between me and the indignant swarm of people. We'd just rounded a curve in the fenced-up walkway, when I caught sight of one of the signs and I understood—

The draft. They were yelling about the draft.

Our walk turned to a jog. Other guards joined us, creating a barrier around me. The angry cries of the crowd grew louder, their chants rising. People were yelling for the draft to be called off. For the fighting to cease. For the age limit to be raised again.

I was pulled in different directions by hands I recognized and hands I didn't. We'd almost reached the main building, the door within sight, when the crowd fell deadly silent.

No one seemed to breathe.

No one moved.

Even Dellacov stilled, his hand tight on my upper arm as he pulled me to a stop next to him. His eyes drifted up, to the balcony of the building. Still shaking and leaning into him for safety, I followed his gaze.

Although I'd never seen her before, I knew exactly who was there. The Queen.

Viera.

She didn't wear a crown or a fancy gown, she only stood, hands clasped behind her back, and looked out over the people below. There was a bit of Uri in her—they had the same dark hair, the same thin arched eyebrows, tanned skin, and high cheekbones. But Uri was softer in places where the queen was sharp.

Viera looked weathered, aged by pressure and time, like a rain-worn stone. She was unchanging and unmoving. She was the woman who had closed our borders and was going to turn children into soldiers. Because of her, my family was starving, my mother had been widowed, and my brothers were going to war.

From my vantage point, I could see her hands as she stepped forward and gripped the railing in bone-thin fingers. They shook slightly and I wondered if that trembling was caused by fear or power.

Unlike her daughter, she was as goddess-touched as I was. It was clear, as the crowd shrunk back from her, that they had just remembered that too.

Viera turned and beckoned with one long finger for one of the guards behind her to approach. She said something to him and he nodded in agreement. She smiled.

Then queen paused, bowed her head to the crowd and retreated back inside the building. The people around us shifted and began to whispered to one another.

What was that about? What did it mean?

Dellacov didn't wait to see what else would happen, he shoved me forward, out of the swarm of people and into the brightly lit train station. For a second, I forgot about what was going on outside.

The inside of Imellia Station didn't look like any train station I'd ever seen. It was different than the pictures in books. Nothing like the Demarti Station, with its metal walls and open-ended tunnel.

Everything was white marble. The floors were slick, shiny slabs, almost like ice, with massive circular columns blooming from the ground. The entire bottom level of the building was made entirely from windows with the uppermost sections crafted in a bright stained glass that cast blue, pink, yellow, and green shadows on the far wall.

Wet dirt and greenery permeated the space, making the building smell of summer. Ivy littered with white and yellow flowers snaked across the ceiling beams, spiraling down the columns and sinking into large wooden planters at their bases. Benches littered the open space, creating walkways that led to ticket booths.

Dellacov ushered me forward, through the room and up a set of steps. I stopped walking half way up the curved staircase and turned to Dellacov. "What just happened, what did she do?"

"Nothing for you to worry about." His hand found the small of my back again and he prodded, trying to get me walking. "There are rules. Disrespecting the royal family is not tolerated. The draft is law. Our country was attacked. The prince was attacked. We must all play out part is securing our nation."

"But the Culled attacked the prince not Vayelle—"

"Rumors and speculation." The pressure of his hand on my back increased. "The Culled doesn't have enough power to get into a high-security event and take shots at the prince. Even if they did, there's more than a good chance that they're being fueled by Vayelle. All of which is beside the point—we need the forces. I'm sure you heard what Vayelle did to Nolajan. Do you want to see that repeated in all of our towns and cities? Do you want it to happen in Varos, to your parents?" He shook his head dismissively. "We don't have time for this. I have somewhere I need to be, so do you."

"The draft being lowered to fifteen is wrong. It's punishing the Erydian people for the crimes of another country. It's sacrificing children."

"Our country is about to throw a competition to celebrate the sacrificing of children, Miss Benson. We've never cared about that before, why start now? Maybe you should start worrying less about other people and more about yourself. Do you have any idea what you're about to walk into?"

I blinked at him, unsure what to say in response. The truth was that I didn't know what I was walking into. I barely understood how the Culling worked. All I knew was that the girl I'd been was dying. Every minute, every step farther away from home, made that more and more clear to me.

Dellacov swallowed, his expression turning apologetic as he sputtered, "I didn't mean—I'm sorry. That came out—I didn't mean it the way it came out. Of course, we should care about that. About you and the Culling...about all of the girls. I just..." He trailed off and looked away from me. "I'm sorry. I have no right to snap at you."

"I am worried about me," I whispered. "I'm just also worried about my family. And the millions of families that will be affected by a war fought with kids."

"I'm sorry. Truly, I am. But it isn't our place to disagree or—"

"Erydians can't even buy land before eighteen."

He looked away from me. "Miss Benson, now really isn't the time."

"We can't buy land here but we're expected to die for it?"

"That isn't for you to worry about. You aren't being drafted. You're in the Culling. If you want to see changes, win. Become queen. Make new rules. That's your choice and only you can make it." Dellacov forced a smile, his expression annoyed. "Now, if you don't mind, we're running behind schedule."

I let him walk me up the rest of the stairs and down a long hallway lined with portraits of regal looking men and women, all of them clothed with sashes, medals and crowns. We entered into another room, this one equally as lovely as the ticket space below.

Dellacov's hand on my back stayed firmly in place, guiding me forward, towards the back of the room, to a small wooden dais. There were flags lining the back of the stage, two silver flags and a navy on either side of a banner of the royal sigil. The platform was empty aside from the flags, a microphone, and a row of seven evenly spaced chairs.

Before going up the steps, I was placed in front of a photographer who took a full body picture and then a close up. I'd never had my picture taken and when the camera flashed, the light blinding and unexpected, I flinched. Everyone standing around laughed, as if it were cute that I'd been so surprised.

This all felt surreal. My fear—the earth-shattering terror I knew waited in the pit of my stomach—seemed inaccessible. As if there was a brick wall between myself and the reality I now faced. I felt like I was dreaming and at any second I would wake up and be back in the cot I shared with my mother.

I longed for the things I'd once wished away.

Dellacov stood to one side, his eyes on his watch as the photographer attempted to make me look presentable. His assistant, a short woman with rosy cheeks and a sweet smile, kept playing with my hair, pushing it back behind my ears and trying to make it look like it was pinned up and not cut short. But there was no helping my hair, or the way my collarbones poked awkwardly from my skin, or the dark circles under my eyes, or my lack of full breasts.

I was starved and tired, there was no hiding it.

My mind was a tangled web of thoughts. There were nine other girls in this Culling—other girls with other abilities. And they were going to try to kill me. All for a crown. A throne I wasn't sure I wanted.

I didn't smile in any of the pictures, even when the man asked me to. Even when he told me that these were the pictures they would broadcast all over the country. This was the picture my mother would see printed in the papers.

Why he thought that would make me smile, I didn't know.

When they were done, Dellacov led me to the middle seat on the dais.

"Stay here until your announcement. When it's time, you'll walk up to the microphone and read from the cards." Dellacov gestured towards the back wall where a rickety projector was set up. "Not too difficult. You'll just say whatever is displayed there. Make sure you pause. Breathe. Look out at the crowd. And for the goddess' sake, don't lock your knees."

I nodded, already feeling like I might be sick.

"This is your first moment in the public eye, stick to the script, smile a little, and there's no real way to screw it up."

"Great. Thank you." I crossed my legs and brought my shoulders back a little, trying to emulate the way I'd seen Uri sitting the day before.

Dellacov shook his head. "Don't cross your legs, the queen doesn't like it. And you'll be giving everyone in the front row a show."

"But yesterday, Uri—"

Dellacov held up a hand and cut me off. "Once again, Uriel is the exception to the rule. All the rules. Even her mother's. You'd do well to ignore everything she says and does."

I uncrossed my legs and pressed my knees together. I shot him a blithe smile and waited until his back was turned to roll my eyes.

On the far wall, the projected square of light flickered black and white, spotting and seeming to quiver against the screen. A man stood by the camera and tinkered with the roll of film. My attention shifted to the microphone. I'd never seen or touched equipment like that.

While Dellacov seemed perfectly certain my reading ability would be enough to get me through the announcement, I wasn't entirely sure. I could imagine at least a dozen ways for me to make a fool of myself.

I was preparing to announce myself into a competition that would either lead to death or queendom. My choices were to kill or be killed. To die or force death on others. And while I wanted nothing more than my life—my freedom—I wasn't sure I could really kill anyone else to get it.

He was almost down the steps of the dais when I called after him. "Dellacov?"

He turned back to me. "Yes?"

"When does the actual Culling start—I mean, the killing part of it?"

"A little over three weeks from now," he said, his tone amused. As if I were supposed to already know that.

My shoulders slumped. "I don't have to kill anyone today?"

"No, not unless you just want to." He started to laugh, saw my expression, and then sobered. "That was a joke. Don't—uh—Don't kill anyone today." When I didn't say anything in response, he continued, "They'll be training and a few public appearances. There needs to be time for the people to grow attached."

Grow attached.

I swallowed down my anxiety, flexed my fingers, pushed my ability away—willed it to settle. I said, "And when the Culling does start? How—How does it work?"

His brow furrowed and he walked back up the steps of the dais and took the seat next to mine. "I'll debrief you on all of this later today, but there'll be drawings for the names and you'll fight a goddess-touched girl one on one. The trials will take place in an arena not far from here. Between the trials and outside of training sessions, you aren't permitted to use your ability or to attack the other marked girls."

I nodded. "But during the trials?"

He shrugged. "It's a fight to the death. Last one breathing wins."