war is over. The High Elves will become our subjects.”
A massive cheer rose from the ranks of prisoners, but the warden was having none of it. “Not to put a damper on the fun, but if the High Elves beat us, then we are to be exterminated, I assume?”
Thyra flashed him a sharp look. “Yes, but if we win, we will have dominion over them. We will be able to escape the confines of this prison.”
“It must be a trap. King Gorm would never agree to this.” I had to give the warden credit; he wasn’t stupid.
Thyra glared at him. “What other choice do we have? Our people are starving. They can’t eat rocks, and we have nothing else. We will have to win by our wits.”
“Sorry, what exactly is a Winnowing?” asked a younger guard.
“Good question.” Thyra paused to gather herself. “In the time before Ragnarok, elves held Winnowings to end conflicts between warring factions. Without them, wars could go on for hundreds of years. Back then, we selected the strongest among us. A Winnowing is a grand tournament of death. Three hundred from each tribe fight in a series of contests. Each tribe gets to choose a contest, and the tribe with the most elves alive at the end is the winner. Many die, yes, but not as many as would die from a thousand years of starvation.”
My mind whirled. A Winnowing. An opportunity to free the Night Elves from the Shadow Caverns. A chance to kill High Elves, to gain supremacy over them. I was all in. One hundred percent. We’d have to kill Galin first, though, and I knew it would not be easy.
I raised my hand. “I volunteer!”
Thyra held up her hand, shaking her head solemnly. “If we allowed volunteers, we’d be slaughtered. The High Elves have a brutal and well-trained army. Ours is”—she spoke carefully—“less efficient. We negotiated that all fighters would be randomly chosen from all levels of elf society. That’s why even convicts will fight in the tournament. This is why I am here.”
“And how, exactly, do you intend to choose the contestants?” the warden growled.
“Every able-bodied elf receives a lot. If your lot is marked, you must fight.”
“And if we decline?”
“You’ll be executed,” said Thyra, looking pointedly at the row of nooses.
My hands clenched into fists, my shoulders freezing in a rigid line, it was taking all my will power to stay in line. I had to be part of this. It was the perfect chance to redeem myself, to become the North Star that Mom had always thought I’d be.
What if this was my destiny?
“I must be part of this!” I shouted.
“Quiet!” shouted the warden. The ends of the guards’ iron batons pointed in my direction. “The next inmate who speaks out of turn will get double shifts for a week.”
I bit my tongue. Double shifts were a death sentence.
Thyra appeared unfazed by the warden’s outburst as she continued, “I have brought lots for everyone in the mines.” She pointed to the gray satchel at her feet and spoke to the warden. “Distribute the contents to the inmates, but they are not to open them until I give the word.”
The warden bowed deeply as he collected the satchel. Quickly, he passed it to the nearest guard. “You heard the Lord. Distribute these among the inmates. Then take some for yourselves. No one opens their lot until she says so.”
The guard leapt from the scaffold, then hurried to the far end of the row of prisoners. Slowly, he walked down the line of inmates. When he reached me, he handed me a small piece of parchment sealed with a blot of black wax.
He moved on to Hulda, then farther along the line of prisoners, as the warden and Thyra watched mutely. When the guard was done, he hurried back to the scaffold.
I stared at the parchment in my hand, which was now the singular focus of my existence. This was my chance at freedom, at redemption. And perhaps revenge for Galin’s betrayal. This was my destiny. It took every fiber of my being not to rip it open then and there.
Finally, Thyra spoke. “You may open your lots.”
I tore open my paper. I forgot to breathe. My stomach became a bottomless void.
But the page before me was a faded beige, entirely devoid of markings. I had not been chosen. Fate had not worked in my favor.
And you know what? Fuck fate.
Anger rose in my chest. My hand shook. Fate or not,