A single bell tolled through the village square.
Its sound cut clean through the cold night air, low and solemn, like a warning too ancient to be ignored.
The crowd gathered closer, huddling beneath the flickering lanterns, their breath fogging in front of them. Shadows danced along the worn cobblestones, and not even the children dared to cry.
It was time.
Elder Jona stepped forward, his walking stick tapping lightly against the stone. His voice, though frail, carried across the square. "As decreed by the Treaty, one name shall be given to the Midnight Court. One year of service, in exchange for peace."
Keira stood near the back, heart thudding like a second bell in her chest. Her hands were clenched in her coat pockets, and next to her, Marah trembled.
"I hate this," Marah whispered. "It feels like a funeral."
"It is," Keira murmured. "They just haven't buried anyone yet."
Jona gestured to the silver basin, a wide, shallow bowl resting atop a stone pedestal. Its surface gleamed with unreadable runes, and beside it sat a small clay bowl filled with lamb's blood, still warm and steaming faintly in the mist.
One by one, the villagers approached, each carrying a folded slip of parchment. Each name was written by hand, sealed with wax, and dipped into the blood before being placed into the basin. It was tradition, or superstition, depending on who you asked, to bind the name in life's essence, so the magic of the basin would "see" it.
When her aunt stepped forward to drop in the Rowen name, Keira barely blinked. The moment felt unreal, like she was outside her body, watching it all from a faraway place.
"You still have time," Marah whispered urgently beside her. "Run. Before they draw it. Just go."
Keira shook her head slowly. "I told you. You can't outrun the Court."
Marah grabbed her arm, her voice trembling now. "Then at least fight. Hide. You're smart. You could disappear for a while—"
"And what happens when they find me?" Keira's voice was low, sharp. "What happens if they take you instead?"
Marah blinked, caught off guard.
"I won't be responsible for that. Let us just pray for the best." Keira added.
Then, without warning, the lanterns dimmed.
A hush fell across the square as a figure stepped forward from the far edge of the crowd.
Not the Capitol official.
This one wore a long cloak of black velvet, its edges curling with mist. Their face was hidden behind a mirrored mask shaped like a bird's beak, silver and inhuman. The mist seemed to coil and rise around them like it recognized its master.
A Midnight emissary.
They made no speech. No gesture of ceremony.
They simply raised one pale hand and reached into the basin.
The blood-stained slips fluttered inside the silver like restless birds. Then, as if tugged by invisible strings, one parchment floated up, slowly, silently, and drifted into the emissary's waiting palm.
The air thickened.
Keira's breath caught in her throat.
The emissary turned the parchment over and held it up toward the sky.
A single crimson spark leapt from the paper. Then another. Flames, quiet and elegant, traced glowing lines into the air, lines that formed letters, until a name burned in the clouds for all to see.
KEIRA ROWEN
Keira heard the sharp gasp of the crowd. She heard the low moan of someone dropping to their knees. She heard the rustling of Marah's skirts as she turned to face her. But all of it felt distant.
All she could see was her name — her name — crackling in red fire above the square.
And then… her father's voice.
"Never trust a Fae who smiles, Keira."
A memory, unbidden. She was seven years old, curled in his lap beside the hearth, listening to him sharpen his hunting knife. He had smelled of pinewood and smoke. His voice had been low, quiet.
"The ones who smile are the ones who think you'll die slow. Promise me you'll remember that."
She had nodded, then. Too young to understand.
Now she did.
She felt Marah's hands grip her coat sleeves.
"No," Marah whispered, fierce and shaking. "They don't get to have you. Keira, run. Please, just go. They'll never catch you if you're fast."
Keira looked at her.
Sweet, stubborn Marah, with her mud-splattered hem and reddened eyes. Always trying to fight battles that weren't hers. Always trying to save someone.
"It's too late," Keira said softly. "They already have me."
Elder Jona turned, his voice like a tolling bell of its own. "Keira Rowen… step forward."
Her legs didn't move. Her hands wouldn't obey.
Then the emissary looked at her.
She couldn't see their eyes behind the mirrored mask, but she felt it, the weight of their stare. Cold and ancient, stretching back across centuries. A silent command.
Keira inhaled once, sharp as a blade.
And she stepped forward.
The crowd parted in stunned silence.
Some wept. Others turned away.
She walked toward the basin, the name in the sky fading with each footstep, leaving only smoke and the scent of blood behind.
When she reached the emissary, she stopped.
"Keira Rowen," Elder Jona said again, now reading from a parchment scroll held in shaking hands. "By will of the Treaty, you are summoned to serve one year in the Midnight Court. At dawn, you will depart."
The emissary turned and vanished into the mist.
And just like that, her fate was sealed.