Chapter 1
The guards sweep into the town square at eight in the morning with blood still on their hands. Everyone is gathered. A few months ago, when it had only begun, there were riots, protests, but now people are tired. Broken. Their daughters are dying and so is their will to fight. You see this in the tired eyes of Shari’s parents as the guards approach them.
The taller of the two bows, and hands them a box.
You know what’s inside. Everyone does. You’re tempted to go look, but you don’t want your last memory of Shari to be of her head, lifeless and grey and contorted into an expression of unimaginable pain.
Her mother opens the box, but instead of wailing at the sight, she simply closes her eyes, and looks away. Her cheeks are wet. She makes no sounds, but her shoulders shake as the guards walk away. Her husband places the lid back on the box, and gently guides her back inside. Shari was their only daughter. They have nothing else to lose.
They have no reason to stay for what comes next.
The lottery happens every day, in every town, city, village, everywhere across the world. Everyone gathers to watch. For those who are eligible to be chosen, it is mandatory; for those who, by some merciful stroke of luck, are not, morbid curiosity is often enough to bring them down to watch, anyway. Besides, your village was established not too long before the takeover. This is a group of people who built their new lives up from the ground side-by-side, and then lost everything they held dear in the same vein. Better to witness tragedy in the company of those you love than sitting alone in a darkened room.
The guards ascend the platform.
It is the same as always. They stare out, saying nothing. When they receive news—either of the drawing or of a volunteer—they will call out the name. How they receive the news, you do not know. Some kind of magic. Dark magic, if the rumors are to be believed. And there are many rumors. They say many things about the new King of Midgard. They say he is tall, with icy skin and inky hair. That he wields ungodly amounts of power in his nimble hands, but rarely has to use them. That he has eyes that flash crimson when provoked, and a short, strong temper. That words pour out of him like quicksilver, slick and seductive and easy to believe, and it is this quality, above all others, which has taken him this far.
They say darker things, too. You have heard the whispers of his rituals; a new bride taken each evening, a new head taken each dawn. Until they took Shari, you almost didn’t think the rumors could be real. Now that she’s gone, you know they are. The realization cuts like a knife, slicing through skin and breath until it settles deep in your bones. It is a living, breathing thing, this pain. Shari is dead. She is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it.
Then again, perhaps there is.
It is not difficult to push through the crowd, to reach the edge of the platform. After all, who would want to stop you? It is extraordinarily difficult, however, to will your hands to stop tingling, your stomach to steel up, your teeth to stop biting your tongue just enough for you to choke out:
“You can take me.” It takes another deep breath before you can say the magic words, the final knot in the noose around your neck. “I volunteer.”
They say many things about the new King of Midgard.
It’s high time you found out for yourself which of those things are true.