Chapter Five
Elysia
The bells wake me, a low, mournful tolling that cuts through the early dawn, rolling across the village. The last remnants of sleep evaporate, replaced by a strange, hollow unease.
I sit up in a rush, breath caught in my throat as a thought hits me squarely in the chest.
I didn’t dream … not even a nightmare. Just a void.
There’s no tingle in my mind that any Dromin visited and fed off my dreams, reaffirming that I simply slept. Before the nightmare I had the previous night, I had never experienced sleeping without a Dromin to spin my thoughts into dreams.
That along with the tolling of the bells is a combination that doesn’t sit right within me. It’s the kind of sound that means something terrible has happened.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and toss on a simple dress before tugging on my boots. My fingers tremble slightly as I lace them, the sound of the bell echoing again, raising the hairs on my arms.
I hurry to the front room, where my parents are already gathering cloaks and their own boots. My mother’s face is pale, lips pressed in a firm line as she stares at my sister’s still-closed door. My father’s eyes are narrowed as he fastens his cloak.
The door opens and my sister peers out, rubbing her eyes. “Why are the bells ringing? Did something happen?”
“No one knows yet,” my mother answers, her voice soft but tight. “But we need to get going, Penelope, please get dressed.”
I pull on my own cloak, glancing toward the window.
“It feels wrong,” I murmur to myself as her door closes softly. “Terribly wrong.”
My father pauses to look at me, something unreadable in his eyes. “There’s always a solution, no matter the issue. We will get through it together, as a family and a village.”
“That’s not comforting,” my sister mumbles as she emerges and tugs a scarf around her neck. “The last time the bells rang was when the locusts came and destroyed our farmland, right?”
I’m not sure how she even knows that, unless they taught it in school. It was before she was born, when I was a baby.
“Yes,” he replies gently, patting her head as she walks toward us. “We did get through that, despite the hardships it brought.”
We were still paying off our debts to those who offered us provisions to rebuild—villages that had been blessed by recent queens, our survival solely on their shoulders as they allotted rations to those of us impacted.
We step outside and the brisk air hits my cheeks with a particularly heavy gust of wind. The streets are already beginning to fill with other villagers. We move as one, footsteps quiet, heads low, and hearts bracing for whatever news waits ahead.
My mother walks closely beside me, whispering loudly enough for my ears only. “I don’t like this, Lys. There’s something off in the air. I felt it the moment I woke up.”
Her hand falls heavily on my shoulder and I instantly lift my own to squeeze it. I wish I had words of reassurance for her, but I have the same eerie dread trailing down my spine.
“Maybe it was a raid from bandits?” my sister asks next to me, her voice quieter now, eyes wide as she scans the gathering crowd as we arrive at the town square.
“No,” my father says without hesitation. “The guard would’ve been mobilized, yet they’re all here. This is something else.”
I take note of the guards lined up behind the center stage and count twenty of them in total. My dad is right.
As we near the square, I catch snippets of whispered speculation.
“Maybe one of our Council members died.”
“I heard that a woman ran away after her father accepted a bridal price.”
That makes my brain spark with alarm and I quickly scan the crowd for Pat or Persephone.
Relief floods through me when I spot them near the far edge of the square, standing close with their parents. Persephone looks pale, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, but Pat catches my gaze and gives me a small, reassuring nod. The kind that says, I’m here, you’re not alone.
I nod back, clinging to that silent promise of friendship as my pulse continues to race. The old stage at the center—the one only used for official decrees—stands empty, but lanterns have been lit along its edges, and the village Council members pace behind it, speaking quietly with the Elder.
We find a spot near the edge of the crowd on the opposite side from Pat and Persephone, letting the majority of the population push in as close to the platform as they want.
My mother clutches my arm lightly and it only adds to my unease.
She is the pillar of composing oneself in the face of any adversity.
The Elder steps forward, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression somber.
He’s older than most make it to, well into his seventies, with a stooped frame that speaks of a life bent under the weight of responsibility.
His silver hair is neatly tied at the nape of his neck, though a few strands have slipped loose in the morning breeze.
Deep lines crease his weathered face, every furrow etched with the decisions of decades past. He clears his throat, and the murmurs hush to silence.
“My friends,” he begins, “today I bring words none of us are prepared to hear.”
He pauses, gaze sweeping across the gathered crowd.
“The Queen is dead.”
Gasps ripple through the square, and for a moment, I think I’ve misheard. I glance back at my mother, finding her mouth slightly parted and eyes wide with disbelief.
“She was young,” my dad whispers behind me. “The elves give them longevity … so, how?”
The Elder continues. “She passed in her sleep. The elves have confirmed her death. No further details were given.”
A stunned silence follows, broken only by scattered murmurs of confusion and fear. It feels like my brain has completely stopped functioning, only a dull buzz rolling through my head.
“She should’ve lived another hundred years at least,” a woman near the front says loudly, her voice shaking.
“It’s not natural,” another mutters.
The Elder raises a hand, quieting the crowd again.
“As you all know, when a queen passes, the selection must begin anew. The High Priestess has called for another selection. Though it has not been long since our last, we must answer.”
My mother’s hand tightens on my arm. “Why now?”
I hear the dread in those two words so deeply that it snaps me from my own stupor. I know why she feels that way, but I refuse to acknowledge it myself.
“We will begin the nomination process today,” he says.
“As tradition dictates, any woman between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five may be put forward. She must be someone we believe to be the very best of us. The brightest, the strongest, and the most beautiful. She will represent this village to the elven High Priestess as our chosen.”
A hush falls over the crowd. Some women shift uncomfortably while others straighten their posture, trying to look confident. I watch Persephone all but hide in Pat’s shadow.
There aren’t that many in our village who fulfill that age requirement, substantially increasing the odds for both of us.
My sister looks up, worry for me clear in her bright blue eyes. “You don’t think …”
“I don’t know, Penelope,” I whisper, a bit harsher than I intended, before pulling her in for a tight hug. My fingers absently play with her braid as she leans into me. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I’m just a little scared, if I’m being honest.”
Her arms tighten around my waist. “It’s okay to be scared.”
My mother turns toward me slowly, her gaze unreadable. “You are strong, Elysia.”
I hear the words left unsaid: If it’s you … you can handle this.
A line begins to form, as all villagers are required to submit nominations. At the platform, the Elder pulls out parchments and quills as a Council member pulls forth a table.
We begin to shuffle into the line and I stand still, arms folded, trying not to look like I’m watching the face of each person walking away after casting their nomination. I can’t help noticing the way some of them glance at me as they walk away.
Not all of them, but enough to make my skin itch and my feet feel like boulders as we shuffle closer.
Another sideways glance, this time from Harven the baker. A hesitant flick of the eyes in my direction from Stella, who I saw two days ago in our home as my mother repaired one of her dresses. Jeren passes me, his gaze lingering a beat too long before he lowers his head.
My pulse quickens. I don’t need to ask who many of them have chosen.
When it’s our turn, my family and I step toward the platform one at a time.
My father is first, moving forward with the quiet dignity that always surrounds him.
He scribbles his nomination with a steady hand and returns to our side without a word, though I catch the small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.
My mother follows, her movements more fluid, but no less solemn. Her face betrays nothing as she presses her parchment into the box. Penelope hesitates briefly, looking up at me before moving forward and casting hers with the same timid grace that defines her.
Then it’s my turn.
I step forward, heart pounding. The quill feels heavier than it should in my hand. I stare at the blank parchment before me, the ink glistening like a dark omen.
Who do I choose?
Names flicker through my mind—women I admire and trust. Each option lands like a stone in my gut as I see their smiles morphing into Maggie’s broken stare.
I’ve clung to the sliver of freedom I possess by not marrying, and this choice erases any semblance of freedom for the person chosen.
But this is different … I can’t just work hard to make up for a decision that serves me.
Willingly choosing someone to walk into Maggie’s fate …
No.
I can’t carry that. I can’t let someone else fall into irrevocable mental ruin for my own freedom.
My freedom wouldn’t taste free if I did.
My hand trembles, and before I can think myself into more torment, I write my own name. The quill scratches softly against the parchment, sealing something that feels irreversible.
The ink bleeds slowly into the page as a quiet offering I never wanted to make.
I place the nomination into the box and step away, joining my family once more.
We return to the edge of the square, where the crowd has grown silent again.
The Council has begun to tally the selections, parchment after parchment unfolding in careful hands.
It doesn’t take long for a pattern to form, one stack of parchment beginning to grow steadily, unmistakably larger than the others.
A hush falls, rippling out as the truth becomes undeniable. There is a distinct winner.
My breath hitches, and the sound of the crowd fades beneath the roar of blood rushing in my ears. My fingers curl into my cloak, nails biting into my palms.
The Elder steps forward once more, lifting the final slip of parchment from the now lopsided stack and reading aloud the name etched across its surface.
“Elysia Virellan.”
The square falls into a heavy, eerie silence. The sound of my name spoken aloud feels like it cleaves something in me wide open.
My mother gasps beside me, her hand flying to her mouth.
Tears well in her eyes, spilling silently down her cheeks.
My father closes his eyes, shoulders visibly shaking, and turns his face slightly away, as if trying to mask the emotion that clutches at him.
Penelope clings to my arm, trembling, her wide eyes glassy.
I wrap an arm around her tightly, squeezing back just as fiercely. I force myself to breathe, to be their strength in the moment, even as my own world tilts off its axis. I swallow down the rising knot in my throat and lift my chin, refusing to crumble.
I dig my heels into the ground, anchoring myself against the storm rising inside me. Because even as the weight of the village’s choice bears down on me, even as dread coils tighter around my lungs, I will not fall apart. Not here. Not yet.
The crowd begins to disperse with everyone going back to their daily lives, unchanged, as if they didn’t just alter mine forever.
My eyes catch on a lone figure standing at the edge of the town square. The same brown smock from yesterday.
Maggie.
Her green eyes are locked on mine, unblinking and sharp, more lucid than I’ve ever seen them. A shiver travels down my back, cold and certain.
She doesn’t speak or move, and suddenly her words from yesterday don’t feel like madness at all.
I stand taller, though my legs feel brittle beneath me, like branches threatening to snap beneath the strain. A storm brews beneath my skin, a mix of dread and resolve.
No matter what awaits me with the High Priestess, I want to believe that I won’t break.
But, fates help me, I’m already cracking.