CHAPTER 1: THE VERDICT
LEYLA
The air in the capital of Arandhia feels heavy. It is not merely the biting winter cold beginning to gnaw at the stone walls, but the weight of the hatred emanating from the kingdom's central plaza.
Careful not to be seen, I conceal myself behind the heavy velvet curtains of the royal balcony to observe the human tide roaring below. The crowd is restless, brandishing lit torches that, as they shift, resemble a sea of fire. Their cry is a single one: rhythmic, constant, and terrifying.
"Justice! We want royal justice! It is not fair that only the blood of the poor is surrendered! Let the princess pay this year's tribute!" the multitude screamed in unison. Due to the uproar, I could not discern exactly to whom each voice belonged, or if it was someone I knew—someone who had watched me grow.
I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms until I feel the pain that anchors me back to reality. At eighteen, I was the very image of elegance: I have raven hair that falls in soft, perfect waves over my shoulders. My cinnamon skin contrasts with the white silk of my dress, and my green eyes, I am certain, reflect the anguish I feel at this moment. I knew that, sooner or later, this could happen; for most women, turning eighteen is a curse from which you cannot escape, even if you wanted to.
"You cannot continue to hide, Your Majesty," Chancellor Ferrick's voice resonates in the room, cold and devoid of compassion. "The people have endured a hundred years of surrenders. A hundred years of watching their daughters being taken to the elven forests, the orcish caves, or the werewolf mountains, never to return. Now they know the princess has come of age. If you do not hand her over, the people will seek to burn the castle with us inside."
I turn with wide eyes to look at my father. King Aldric seemed to have aged ten years in a single night. He is slumped in his throne, his golden crown askew and his eyes bloodshot. Beside him, my younger sister Lyra, barely sixteen, trembles like a leaf, sobbing silently. I knew my father had delayed the idea of having us for as long as he could, but my mother had insisted on having her own children before she was too old; as a consequence, here we are, and here he is, suffering.
"They are my daughters!" the King shouts, though his voice lacks its former strength. "The elves demanded a fertile human to try and save their withered lineage. Anyone will do. I cannot send Leyla to that fate! They say the elves are beautiful, but they are cold as ice. The women who go there become porcelain dolls, emptied of their will."
"Father…" I exclaim, taking a step forward, indignant and upset. What he had just said sounded so selfish and cruel... I know he said it because he loves us, but it still sounded very cruel coming from him. Usually, he is not like this—at least not with us. But my father ignores me.
"You are mistaken, Your Majesty. The Elven King is demanding that, this time, royal blood be sent."
"Damnation! We will send the Duke of Vane's daughter!" my father, Aldric, suggests desperately. "We will say she is of royal blood through her maternal line."
"The people are not fools, Your Majesty," Ferrick interrupts him with a weary sigh. "Everyone here has seen Princess Leyla grow. They know who she is and what she looks like. And the elves... they smell lies and detect fear. If we send them one who does not possess royal blood—your royal blood—and they discover it, the 'Silent Peace' will end. The elves will launch their enchanted arrows, the orcs will march from the Iron Mountains toward us, and worst of all, the werewolves will break the treaties and enter our territory to hunt. We will be wiped off the map in a week. Is that what Your Majesty wants?"
A burst of shattering glass below makes me startle. The noise is followed by the shouts of a rioting mob. I peer cautiously over the balcony once more; they have toppled one of the statues in the plaza. The revolution, in fact, was already at the gates. I look back inside: there is Lyra, my little sister. She is joy itself, a girl who still dreams of romances and sunny gardens. If the monarchy falls tonight, Lyra will be the first to suffer at the hands of the enraged people. Or worse yet: if I do not go this year, in two years, it will be Lyra who turns eighteen and feels the same pressure I feel right now.
My heart leaps. I take a deep breath as a strange calm and a gelid resolve take hold of me.
"I will go," I said calmly. My voice was not even loud, but it was enough to cut through the chaos in the room like a knife. King Aldric, my father, stands frozen with wide eyes. Lyra stops crying to look at me with horror.
"What did you say?" Aldric whispers, as if he hadn't heard me.
"I will go," I repeat, this time with more confidence, as I walk toward the center of the room with my head held high. I would not allow myself to be intimidated or talked out of it. "I will not allow this kingdom to be destroyed by our cowardice. I have been raised and educated to serve my people, and if it is required that I be surrendered to the Elven King, then so be it. I prefer to be a voluntary sacrifice, to leave with dignity and my head held high, than to be a prisoner dragged through the mud like a common coward. And that is not going to happen."