Chapter 4: The Lottery

Morning sunlight spilled through the thin, patched curtains of Everleigh’s small room, painting the worn floorboards in muted gold. She had hardly slept the night before, tossing and turning, her mind clouded with thoughts she couldn’t escape. Today was the lottery.

Her stomach twisted as she pushed herself out of bed. The little cottage felt too quiet, too small. Even the birds outside seemed to have gone silent, as though the whole world held its breath for what was to come. She ran a hand over her blanket, as if holding onto it could somehow shield her from the unknown.

Everleigh stood before the old mirror propped against her wall. Its surface was scratched and spotted with age, but it showed enough of her reflection for her to make herself presentable. She lifted her brush and began untangling her hair, pulling the bristles carefully through each knot. Her long, medium-blonde hair caught the sunlight, glinting faintly as she worked through the stubborn tangles. She twisted the ends into loose waves, leaving the top smooth and neat. Today, she decided to leave it down, letting it flow freely over her shoulders—a silent act of defiance against the control the Lottery threatened to impose.

She stared at herself for a long moment. Not out of vanity—never that—but the weight of knowing this was the version of herself that would be remembered. Tomorrow—or maybe today, since it began in hours—would mark the start of a life she hadn’t chosen. Whether she was selected or overlooked, this moment mattered. Every movement, every gesture, every glance.

Everleigh’s hands lingered over her best dress. It wasn’t much, but it was neat and pressed, a pale blue that softened her features. Her mother had sewn patches over the worn areas countless times, and though the fabric was thin, it smelled faintly of lavender, a scent that always reminded her of home. She tugged it over her shoulders and tied the ribbon at her waist, staring at the way the skirt fell around her ankles. No jewelry. No silk, no adornments. Only the dress, the ribbon, and herself.

Her fingers lingered at her collarbone. Rowan will be here. He promised.

She’d imagined walking beside him to the square, his easy smile calming her, his playful remarks reminding her to breathe. He always had that effect on her, softening the sharp edges of the world. She tugged lightly at her braid, wishing it would somehow reassure her, wishing it would signal that he was coming.

But when she stepped outside, the road leading to her cottage was empty.

The morning air was cool and heavy with the scent of damp earth. People were already gathering, moving in clusters toward the heart of the village where the elder would read the names. Everleigh stood by her gate, her fingers tightening around the basket of small things she had brought for her mother and aunt, wishing it could also carry her courage.

A minute passed. Then two. Her heart beat faster.

“Where are you, Rowan?” she whispered under her breath.

She smoothed her dress again, though it didn’t need it, and waited longer. Time was slipping away. If she didn’t show, it would be seen as defiance, as dishonor. And dishonor was something her family could not afford.

At last, with a heavy heart, she started walking alone.

The village square was already crowded when she arrived. Families huddled together, mothers clutching their daughters’ hands tightly, fathers staring grimly toward the elder’s platform. The air smelled of baked bread, fresh soil, and the sharp tang of livestock pens. Children fidgeted at their parents’ sides, their small fingers gripping fabric tightly as though it could hold the world at bay. Everyone knew what was at stake. Every village must send two girls to the princess academy. Two lives plucked from ordinary soil and thrust into a garden that may or may not let them bloom.

Everleigh shifted uneasily in the crowd. She searched everywhere—faces blurring together in her frantic hope—but Rowan was nowhere to be found.

Instead, something else caught her attention.

Near the elder’s platform stood a cluster of men in finer clothes than the rest, their presence impossible to ignore. They weren’t villagers. Their posture, their polished boots, the way people instinctively moved aside for them—all of it marked them as servants of the crown.

But one among them stood apart.

He wore a half-mask of dark fabric covering the bridge of his nose and his eyes, leaving only his mouth and jaw visible. His attire was richer still: a deep green cloak trimmed with silver thread, clasped at his shoulder with an insignia she couldn’t quite make out. He spoke quietly with the elder, who nodded in response, glancing uneasily at the crowd before bowing slightly.

When the masked man stepped back, his gaze swept over the villagers.

And then it landed on her.

Everleigh froze, breath catching in her throat. He didn’t look away. His stare was unflinching, steady, as though he’d been searching for her all along. The crowd shifted around her, people murmuring and adjusting, but his focus never wavered.

Her pulse thundered in her ears. She wanted to shrink back, to vanish among the others, but something in that gaze held her still. It was not cruel, nor kind—it was assessing, measuring, knowing.

Why her?

Everleigh wrapped her arms around herself, fighting the shiver that ran through her. She tried to reason with herself—he could be anyone, someone just passing by. But no one else seemed to notice him at all. He remained, silent, unmoving, until the elder spoke again.

Her eyes darted across the crowd, searching. She looked for Rowan, for anyone familiar, for a friendly face. Her chest tightened as she realized that she was entirely on her own. The rising sun glinted off her dress, making her stand out even more among the villagers’ muted tones. The nerves coiled tighter in her stomach, and her hands trembled slightly.

The elder cleared his throat, holding up a scroll. The murmurs hushed, silence rolling over the crowd like a tide. His voice rang out, trembling slightly but firm enough to reach every ear.

“By decree of the crown, the lottery shall begin.”

Everleigh hardly heard the first name called. Her thoughts were still tangled with the masked man’s stare, the strange pull of it, the questions rising like smoke in her mind.

She felt exposed, standing there alone. The village seemed suddenly vast and alien, and the crowd pressing around her felt like it might swallow her whole. Her hands clutched at her dress, her heart racing.

Then, the elder’s voice struck the air again—louder this time, clearer.

“Everleigh.”

The world seemed to still.

She gasped softly, her heart lurching as all eyes turned toward her. The masked man’s gaze remained fixed on her. Unlike everyone else, he did not blink, did not glance away, did not turn. Only her.

Everleigh swallowed hard, trying to steady herself, to breathe through the tightness in her chest. Her name had been called. And whatever waited for her beyond the crowd was about to begin.