Chapter 7 #2
The speakers crackle to life, halting the chatter.
A silver spotlight illuminates the circular stage in the heart of the arena floor that rotates as it rises.
The double-sided screen dangling directly above comes to life with Caligo’s official crescent moon emblem.
Our city has limited resources and strict rations for energy usage, hence the reliance on bioluminescent sconces, yet no resource is spared for the chancellor and his theatrics.
Chancellor Bren’s crystal eyes glimmer like a proud father’s as he strides into the beam of light and stretches his arms wide.
Spectators rise to roar their admiration, hoisting babies onto their shoulders and throwing fists into the air.
The chancellor mouths his thanks while clutching a palm over his chest—a humble public servant basking in the praise.
A minute or so into the ovation, he flips over his palms, signaling for voices to lower, heads to bow.
As one, thousands of chins dip in reverence.
“Welcome, sons and daughters of Caligo. Before we begin, let us first pray. Merciful shadows, we thank you for shrouding our great city from the abominations above. We invite your blessed darkness to guide us tonight as we choose the next round of Huntresses to further our noble cause of eliminating the Sols, so that we may one day know true peace above and below. If the shadows will it, let it be.”
The whole of the arena concurs, “Let it be!”
Chancellor Bren beams, lapping up the attention of this call-and-response.
“Two hundred seventy-nine years ago, the Sols drove us to the brink of extinction after the Last War massacres. The shadows welcomed us, gave us shelter, time to multiply. Our enemies’ fatal dependence on the sun deterred them from following us, but our founders—may they rest in the peace of eternal darkness—knew we’d never attain full freedom until every last Sol was eradicated. Thus began the Hunt.”
On cue, the spotlight dims and the crescent moon emblem fades from the screen as the highlight reel begins. Almost three centuries’ worth of footage edited down to showcase the most thrilling moments of past Hunts.
A collective gasp echoes through the stands when a Sol appears in frame.
Charred flesh stretches across its vaguely humanoid face as it cocks its head and blinks its iridescent eyes—eyes that are only capable of a single feeling: guttural thirst. Cursed to crave the humanity burned away by the golden sunlight pulsating through its veins.
The video jumps to a full-body shot, filmed at an angle close to the ground, likely from the camera of a fallen Huntress.
A black-and-gold figure lunges across the screen, grabbing a woman by the throat and lifting her.
She attempts to lift her nightstone sword, arcing it toward the Sol’s neck.
But the creature moves faster. It dodges the attack and pummels the Huntress into the ground so hard that the weapon slips from her grip.
Another angle switch, filmed from the point of view of the Sol’s current victim, shows the scorched skin around its mouth peeling back. Its tongue extends, splitting into six needle-like pincers that burrow past the woman’s fighting leathers straight into her chest.
Then, it drinks.
The woman’s flailing arms twitch violently before going limp as the last of her life essence is drained from her.
I lower my gaze to the empty arena floor.
Perhaps I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should study more of the Sols’ movements, so I can have a semblance of a strategy when my name gets called.
But the barbarity of it all is no longer a novelty. Not to me. There’s nothing new to see in these clips that I haven’t seen before. The Huntresses who attack get killed. The Huntresses who run get killed. No matter the strategy, the result is the same.
Three women, since the formation of Caligo, have defied the odds.
Not by landing a blow or outrunning the Sols.
No, each of these women used their comrades as bait, waiting until the creatures were thoroughly engrossed in ripping apart their prey.
Covered in the blood of their peers, they laid motionless among the viscera, waiting until sunset.
As soon as the Sols retreated for the night, they ran home.
Only one of those exceptions happened during my lifetime: Jacqueline Winters.
I was a young teenager with little interest in the Hunt, since I’d been under the impression even then that I’d never have to worry about eligibility. But from what I remember, Jacqueline wasn’t exactly given a hero’s welcome when she found her way back.
We’re told that being selected for the Hunt is a chance to fulfill your duty by fighting for our collective freedom. Yet Jacqueline didn’t fight for her city or her comrades. She fought for herself.
And I don’t blame her one bit.
Colors and shadows flicker across the arena as the screen cycles through dozens of gruesome deaths, glamorizing them with slow-motion sequences and a dramatic build-up in the soundtrack.
My eyes rove around, eager to look at literally anything but the screens, when my neck prickles with the sensation of being watched.
I shift my cloak back the tiniest bit and scan the visible faces of those in the first row directly across from my entrance. They’re all dutifully glued to the video, pupils dilated and mouths parted.
My attention returns to the stage. Though the spotlight is off, I could swear the man standing there is angled directly towards me.
Why would Chancellor Bren take an interest in me?
I’ve done my part. Stayed away from his son and his thriving new family.
An exemplary ex-daughter-in-law and citizen, minus my audacious action of accepting gifted groceries and my failed attempt at running away.
But there’s no way he’d know about the latter.
We weren’t caught. The gruff, half-naked stranger got Gem to the cabin before the headcount.
I made it back unseen. If the chancellor had any reason to suspect us, I’d know by now.
Stop being so paranoid.
I release my hood and pretend my pulse isn’t racing while the video builds to the grand finale—an illustrated future where the final Sol falls, leaving humans to roam the surface of the Earth in peace.
Only under the protection of night, of course, lest we expose ourselves to the sun’s mutation and rebirth the problem.
The narrator closes off the presentation with Chancellor Bren’s favorite chant: “If the shadows will it, let it be.”
With a shout, the crowd pumps their fists and claps like victory has already been won.
The spotlight returns to the stage, where the chancellor sits in a lavish, black velvet chair—a throne for a quasi-king. To his left sits his third wife in picturesque stoicism. And to his right, Gabe Bren.
My ex-husband.
He’s as painfully handsome as I remember. From the perfectly coiffed swoop of his auburn hair to the thick lashes framing midnight irises, his is a beauty that demands your full attention. So, I oblige, studying his pink lips and the way they tilt up in a smile.
It’s false, of course. The absence of his dimples gives him away. Then again, I haven’t seen him share a true, dimpled grin in over a decade. Perhaps they’ve disappeared with age along with his decency and desire to do better than his father.
The thought is enough to break the allure.
My gaze wanders a few feet to the right, to Coraline Lunam. The newly promoted hostess of the Hunt boasts a too-wide grin as she steps up to the podium. “Wow, wow, wow! I’ll tell you what, I’ll never get tired of seeing our brave Huntresses in action, fighting for our freedom. Will you?”
More like dying for the unattainable concept of our freedom.
Cries of “No!” and “Never!” and “Woo!” blend in a jumbled roar.
“Tonight, ten lucky women will be selected to carry on that legacy. I know you’re all anxious to skip to the selections.” Coraline rubs at her swollen stomach and giggles. “Oh! Looks like he’s ready, too. But first, let’s welcome our eligible candidates!”
The drummers flanking each entrance begin beating their mallets to a building rhythm.
Here’s our cue.
Tens of thousands of rabid faces swivel in our direction. Their feral eyes gleam, and I’m not sure if they’re more keen to see which of us will finally seize the unattainable victory over the Sols, or to watch us break. Likely a mix of both.
This is just a game to them. Our lives. Our deaths.
Last night, we were neighbors, if not friends. But tonight, we’re nothing more than glorified pawns that exist for their benefit and entertainment. And what’s more morbidly fascinating than watching someone suffer?
A manic laugh catches in my throat as I recognize that that’s one of the few things I’m good at: suffering. Perhaps this is exactly what I deserve, the purpose I’m meant to fulfill.
I stride forward, shoulders shrinking inward, until I’m three feet in front of the stage, six feet from my ex-husband, and a minute from finding out if the knot that’s been tightening in my chest for weeks now was right to worry.