The sun never rose quite right in Velmora.
Even on the clearest morning, the light seemed to sift through a veil—muted, cold, touched by some unseen hand. Elira stood barefoot on the cracked stones behind her mother's cottage, breathing in the scent of smoke and damp earth. The washing line flapped lazily in the breeze, linen ghosting between the crooked trees, and somewhere far off, the church bell tolled.
Another execution. Another name erased.
She didn't flinch. That sound had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. The cost of surviving under a king who feared his people more than his enemies. The war had taken so much: land, food, sons. And now, daughters.
"Elira!" her mother called from the doorway, voice brittle as dried leaves. "Don't dawdle. The bread's almost done."
Elira tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear and stepped inside the dim cottage. The fire crackled low, and the air smelled of yeast and thyme. Her little brother, Davi, sat cross-legged by the hearth, tracing shapes in the ashes."Any dreams last night?" he asked without looking up.
She paused. "No."
He tilted his head, unconvinced. Davi had a way of seeing through things he shouldn't. Just a boy of ten, but his eyes held a knowing she couldn't explain—like he'd been born remembering something ancient.
She had dreamed, of course. She always did. A forest of thorns. A silver crown buried in snow. A beast's howl echoing through her bones. But she'd long since learned to keep such things to herself. In Velmora, dreams were dangerous.
Her mother shoved the bread onto the table, eyes darting to the window. "Eat quickly. The king's men are coming today."
Elira froze. "Here?"
"A new choosing," her mother whispered. "We weren't supposed to be on the list, but something changed."
Her stomach twisted. The choosing happened once a year—when the king offered a girl to the cursed prince of Draemor in exchange for peace. No one knew what became of them. Some said they lived like queens in a ruined palace. Others whispered darker tales—of blood, bones, and beasts.
Elira had always believed it wouldn't touch her. She was a baker's daughter. Hidden. Insignificant. But fate had sharp teeth, and it was hungry.
A knock thundered at the door.
Three men in black armor stood outside, their cloaks bearing the white serpent of the royal seal. One stepped forward, a scroll in his hand.
"Elira of Hearth Hollow," he said, voice flat. "By royal decree, you are summoned to the capital. Prepare yourself."
Her mother wept.
Elira stood very still.
And outside, the sun finally broke through the clouds—just enough to catch the edge of a thorn bush at the garden's edge, its blooms curling like wounds.