Prologue

Every summer solstice, the kingdom of Aramore held its breath.

The bells tolled at dawn, ringing from the capital’s towers and spilling outward in waves until their echoes reached even the smallest, farthest villages. In every hamlet, every crossroads, every town square, families paused to listen as though the sound itself might pierce the veil between fate and freedom.

The bells meant only one thing.

The Lottery had begun.

It was a ritual older than any living soul, older than the crown itself, or so the elders claimed. No one could say with certainty why it had started. Some whispered of bargains with gods, struck in blood and desperation during a war long forgotten. Others swore it was penance, a kingdom’s endless atonement for sins never spoken of aloud.

Whatever the truth, the rule never changed: two girls from every village, chosen by chance, would be taken to the palace.

What happened after was a matter of rumor.

Some never returned. Some came back hollow-eyed, strangers in their own skin, their voices carrying secrets they would never tell. A rare few rose to prominence, their names carried on the lips of merchants and soldiers alike, tales of beauty and fortune spun like gold. But most faded into silence.

And so, when the bells rang across the valley, Everleigh felt the sound in her bones like a knell.

She had woken before the sun, though she hadn’t meant to. Sleep had been a lost cause, chased away by a restless stomach and the weight of knowing this day would come. The village seemed to hum even in the dim hours, footsteps and whispers drifting through the cool air as families readied themselves for the gathering.

Her mother moved quietly about their small home, her hands never quite still, wringing a cloth or smoothing it again. Her father had gone early to the forge, though no work would be done today. Some men pretended at their trades on Lottery day, but everyone knew it was only a distraction, a way to keep their hands busy until the drawing was over.

Everleigh tried not to watch her mother’s face as they walked together to the square. If she did, she might see her fear reflected back at her, and she could not bear it.

The square was already crowded, a sea of faces she had known all her life. The butcher and his family. The innkeeper’s daughters whispering with wide eyes. Children chasing one another at the edges of the gathering, not yet old enough to feel the dread clinging to the air.

The box sat waiting on the platform, its dark oak polished smooth from centuries of trembling hands. It wasn’t large, but to Everleigh it seemed to swell, looming over the crowd with a presence that was more than wood and nails.

Inside were slips of parchment, each one a girl’s name. Each one a possible ending.

Her stomach twisted as she watched girls file forward one by one to add their names. The elder stood by with a solemn face, watching, though he said nothing. He didn’t need to. The act was ritual enough—the dipping of the head, the slipping of parchment into the box, the silent acknowledgment that fate would not be avoided.

When it was Everleigh’s turn, her legs felt heavy as stone. She clutched the folded slip in her hand so tightly her knuckles ached. The box loomed before her, its mouth open, waiting.

She dropped her name inside.

The sound was small, a whisper of paper against wood. But to her ears, it was thunder.

She stepped back into the crowd, her mother’s hand finding hers, her father’s face taut as a drawn bow. Around them, neighbors murmured in low voices. Some girls tried to laugh, to make light of it, but the sound rang false, brittle as glass.

Everleigh’s heart drummed in her chest.

The elder climbed the platform, his robe sweeping the boards as he turned to face the village. He was an old man, older than anyone could remember, and his voice had grown thin and shaky over the years. But on Lottery day, it carried. Every word did.

He spoke the ritual phrases, words worn smooth by repetition, their meaning long since bled out of them. Still, the crowd listened, silent and reverent, because that was what you did. Because to do otherwise was to invite misfortune.

The elder reached into the box. His hand hovered there a moment too long, as if reluctant, before dipping inside.

The crowd held its breath.

The first slip was drawn.

The name was called. A girl near the front gasped, her mother let out a broken cry, and the guards stepped forward. The crowd shifted to make room as she stumbled to the platform, tears streaming down her face, her father’s arms straining to hold him back as he reached for her.

The square seemed to sway with grief, but no one spoke against it. No one ever did.

The elder reached again.

Everleigh’s fingers dug into her mother’s hand until her nails bit skin. The box seemed to grow, swallowing the elder’s arm whole as he drew out the second slip. His hand shook.

He opened it.

His lips parted.

And then her world ended.

“Everleigh.”

The name cut through the square like a blade.

For a moment, she couldn’t breathe. The sound echoed in her skull, louder than the bells had been, louder than the pounding of her own heart. She felt her mother’s grip falter, her father’s sharp intake of breath. She heard the whispers ripple outward, voices overlapping until they blurred into one suffocating roar.

“The blacksmith’s daughter—”

“Quiet girl, always kept to herself—”

“Poor thing—”

Her body moved before her mind caught up. Her knees trembled, but she forced herself upright, her feet carrying her forward though every step felt like walking through water. The crowd parted, eyes following her, pity and fear mingling in their gazes.

She wanted to run. To hide. To vanish into the earth and never be found. But the guards were already watching, their spears gleaming in the sun, their faces unreadable.

There was no escape.

She mounted the platform, her vision blurring at the edges. The other chosen girl stood nearby, pale and shaking, her tears carving tracks down her face. Their eyes met, a flicker of shared terror binding them for one breath.

The elder lowered his head, voice faltering as he spoke the closing words of the ritual. The slips were returned to the box, the names sealed.

Two girls. Chosen.

This year, one of them was Everleigh.

As the guards stepped closer, the air seemed to thicken, heavy with the weight of all the lives she was leaving behind. She heard her mother’s sob, raw and unbroken, felt the tremor in her father’s silence. She wanted to reach for them, but her arms hung useless at her sides.

The crowd pressed in, watching as she was led away. Watching as fate closed its hand around her and did not let go.

And in that moment, Everleigh understood what every chosen girl must have felt before her: the bone-deep certainty that her life was no longer her own.

The Lottery had spoken.

And the palace awaited.