Chapter Eight
Elysia
Dawn seeps through the cottage shutters, catching on the dust motes in the air and casting warm patterns across the worn floorboards.
For one last moment I lie still beneath the covers, breathing in the scent of woodsmoke and dried lavender, listening to the quiet sounds of home—my mother’s low humming from the hearth, the soft thud of a wooden spoon against a clay pot, and Penelope’s light footsteps padding across the floorboards in search of breakfast.
Everything feels too normal, too unchanged, and yet today could be the last time I’ll ever wake in this bed. My fingers curl into the edge of the quilt, anchoring myself for one last moment before I rise.
When I finally bring myself into the kitchen, the scent of spiced stew and dried meat clings to the air, thick and familiar. My mother stands by the table, hands moving with quiet purpose as she wraps bundles in cloth with careful intent.
“I packed a lot of your favorite dried apples,” she says softly, not looking up yet, maybe because she can’t bring herself to. I swallow hard. “And cured meat, a loaf of barley bread, and I tucked a new, thick scarf in, in case the wind turns with the winter cycle coming.”
Her voice is steady, but I can feel the strain beneath it.
Like each word is a thread pulled taut, threatening to fray.
In this moment, as she buries herself in tasks, I see myself reflecting back so brightly.
I learned to put others before myself from her, to choose to be kind when others are not, and to fight for our family.
“Thank you,” I whisper, though the words feel too small for all that they carry.
It feels like I’m searching for a way to thank her for the past twenty-three years of life instead of the supplies she packed.
For every kiss to my self-inflicted injuries from playing too hard with Pat, for the hugs that wrapped around me so tightly it felt like she could single-handedly hold me together, for protecting my heart and dreams at the sacrifice of her own at times.
My gaze drops to the large new satchel on the table, leather with a shining buckle fastened tight. I step closer and brush my fingers over it as she says, “Thald made that. It’s his highest-quality leather and much bigger than your worn satchel. Your father went early this morning to buy it.”
I pause my inspection of the fine leather to glance up at her, torn between frustration and gratitude. “You shouldn’t waste the money on me with winter coming. You won’t have my income for future cycles and—”
She closes the short distance between us and grabs my hands, cutting me off with her words. “Elysia, we will be fine, honey.” Her grip tightens before letting go to cradle my face. “You will be fine.”
My lip wobbles and I blink back tears welling up.
Penelope appears beside us suddenly, clutching something in her hands. Her eyes are puffy from crying, though she’s trying not to let me see. She swallows hard and offers me a length of ribbon—her favorite one. Deep purple with faint silver embroidery running along the edges.
“For your braid,” she says, her voice wobbling. “So you don’t forget us on your journey. So you don’t forget me.”
Emotion lodges in my throat and I can’t hold back the few stray tears that cascade down my cheeks. I take the ribbon with reverence, fingers trembling as I smooth it between my palms.
“I could never forget you,” I say, and then I open my arms.
She falls into them, clinging to me so tightly it nearly breaks me. I rock her gently, burying my nose in her hair. She smells like the lavender oil our mother rubs into her scalp at night, soft and floral and heartbreakingly familiar.
“You’ll wear it?” she whispers into my shoulder.
I nod, even though my voice won’t come. I don’t trust it not to crack, along with my heart.
My father steps into the room then, silent as ever, as my mother draws Penelope back into her arms. He holds something wrapped in a dark wool cloth, fingers working nervously along the corners.
“This was meant for your wedding,” he says after a pause, voice rasped and quiet. “But life had other plans.”
He unwraps it carefully and reveals a pendant—slender and simple. A polished piece of river stone, cool gray streaked with white, encased in a delicate twist of silver. The chain glints faintly in the morning light.
His heavy steps thud against the floorboards as he approaches and offers it to me. “It belonged to your grandmother.”
The moment stings deeper than I expect. My hand closes around the pendant like it might disappear if I don’t hold it tight enough.
“I’ll carry her strength with me,” I swear, “and yours.”
He nods once, his soft brown eyes shining with love and pride.
Then suddenly I’m wrapped in his large arms. This hug is longer and tighter than usual, his arms wrapped around me like he’s trying to protect me from everything to come that he can’t control.
His chin rests against the top of my head, and I feel the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“My brave girl,” he says softly, so low I almost miss it. “You’ve always been the strongest soul I’ve known, ever since your first breath and cry in this world.”
A fresh wave of tears burns hot behind my eyes, and I hold him tighter, burying my face in his shoulder.
My mother joins us a moment later, wrapping her arms around both of us, and then Penelope squeezes in between, forming a knot of warmth and breath, all of our hearts breaking in unison.
We stand there for a long time, wrapped in each other, not speaking—just existing in the only kind of goodbye we know how to give, one full of love.
A knock at the door snaps us out of the moment and we step back as my father walks to the door.
He opens it and two guards wait outside, horses pawing the dirt behind them.
One man is tall and weathered, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood.
The other is younger, a flicker of softness in his eyes as they brush over me.
“We’re here for the chosen,” the older one says flatly.
No name. No acknowledgment. Just … the chosen.
I guess it’s time.
I grab the satchel off the table and drape it over my shoulder before moving toward the door. I hear my family’s steps follow quickly behind me as I reach the doorstep and look out. A wooden wagon is hitched behind the horses, modest and bare, its boards worn and splintering.
My home for the next however many days it will take to journey to the northern port.
I glance back at my family one last time.
My mother presses a kiss to my forehead, her lips warm and trembling.
My father takes the pendant from my hand, securing it around my neck, his touch lingering on the stone as he tries to muster a smile.
Penelope slips her hand into mine and whispers, “Don’t forget to braid it in. ”
“I won’t,” I promise before I attempt to force myself to let go of her hand. Our fingers slide apart, the tips lingering a brief second before I turn over my shoulder toward my unknown fate, my hand falling flat to my side.
Take the step.
I let the tears fall freely as I walk toward the wagon, afraid that if I look back I’ll lose the small bit of strength and courage I’m clinging to.
The younger guard silently helps me up, steadying me with a nod that feels almost like an apology as I wipe the tears from my cheeks and settle onto the sideboard.
My eyes look down at the ribbon in my hand, my tears quickly falling onto it, seeping into the soft fabric. I take in a deep breath as I thread the ribbon into the end of my braid.
The reins snap and the wagon lurches forward, the wheels creaking beneath me as the village begins to pass by in a blur. People have gathered in silence. Some nod solemnly. Some avert their eyes. A few children wave hesitantly before their mothers pull them back. No cheers. No happy farewells.
Just a somber quietness.
I swallow the lump rising in my throat and keep my chin high.
Someone had to be sent, at the end of the day.
There was always going to be a woman in this wagon riding off and a village full of people expecting her to come back broken and a shell of their former self like Maggie, if they aren’t chosen as queen.
I know some of them feel shame for being a part of writing my name down and I wish I could tell them to believe in me now, that I will fight for myself, for all of us.
That I won’t let this journey break me. But my words would sound hollow to them, and I vowed then to let my actions speak for themselves.
We’re halfway through the square when I hear someone shouting.
“Wait!”
The wagon continues on as I turn my head toward the voice, heart catching in my throat at the streak heading toward us.
Pat.
He’s sprinting down the road, cloak flapping, golden hair tousled from sleep. He reaches the wagon in seconds and slaps his palm against the side.
“Stop the damn wagon!” he yells.
I don’t wait for permission; I jump down and meet him halfway. He crashes into me with a breathless hug, arms clenching so tightly it knocks the air from my lungs.
I hear the guard yell and the wagon creak to a halt.
“I almost missed you,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry. I thought I had more time.”
“It’s okay,” I whisper, holding him just as fiercely. “You made it.”
He pulls back and presses something into my hand, and I quickly glance down. My eyes roam over the leather sheath around what I presume to be a dagger.
“You always think of everyone else,” he says before pausing and wrapping my hand around the weapon. “Not everyone will be as kind-hearted as you and they will take advantage of it, Lys. Promise me you’ll protect yourself.”
I blink a few times, processing his words and the weight of them.
I may find the ways of our village to be outdated and suffocating, but I always knew I was safe.
Beyond my home, I’m not naive enough to think that will be the same, yet it never occurred to me that I may have to bloody my own hands to ensure it.
“I promise,” I whisper.
We stare at each other a moment longer before I step away and climb back onto the wagon. There’s so much I could say, but only a few words come to the tip of my tongue as I gaze down at him.
“Marry Persephone and love her deeply, check in on my family every once in a while, and keep our spot on the hill warm for me when I return.”
I watch his throat bob as his lips thin. He nods over and over, seeming to get choked up before brushing his hand over his face harshly.
“I know it’s you who convinced the Elder,” he whispers back. “Thank you.”
I nod, clutching his gift in my lap as the wagon lurches forward again. I watch until the village begins to blur behind us. The twisted ivy around our fence posts, the uneven slats of the roof, the fields that fed us, the faces of the only people I’ve ever known and cared for.
There, at the edge of the square, I see Penelope. Still standing, still watching, her cheeks blotched with red patches and tears streaming down them.
The wind rises, brushing against my cheeks, tugging gently at the end of my braid and the ends of the ribbon, and I wonder whether I’ll ever see home again.