Page 2 of Mountain of Dragons and Sacrifice

I had the grove. I didn’t need to marry to support myself.

When the choice had come between risking my life on one day a year or knowingly stepping into a marriage that would be miserable every day, then the choice had been obvious.

Though the conviction waned a bit today, facing the Day of Sacrifice and remembering the utter loss of watching Clarissa led away to her death.

The door opened behind me, and Bapi’s heavy footsteps halted just inside.

Mama finally released me, her eyes teary, before she reached up and patted my cheek. “I suppose we should go.”

I nodded and forced my leaden feet to face the door.

My father—my bapi—stood there, wearing his normal tunic and breeches with his work sandals on his feet. His fingers were large and callused while lines grooved his sun-worn face. He had likely been out first thing in the morning, checking on the olives.

“How is the harvest looking?” I tried to smile, though it was hard.

Everything would be fine. I would join Bapi in the harvest tomorrow, as I always did.

Bapi gave a grunt. An affirmative grunt. Strong and silent, that was my bapi.

He reached out and held out a round token carved from the wood of an olive tree.

I swallowed and took the token, the surface smooth against my palm as I clenched my fist around it.

My token. The one that would either doom me or save me today.

I wasn’t sure why my stomach felt so heavy this year. I’d survived eight previous Days of Sacrifice without being chosen. There was no reason to think I wouldn’t survive this one.

Clarissa hadn’t. The pang of my best friend’s loss was a reminder that this day always ended in death.

Without another word or grunt, Bapi wheeled and marched out the door. Mama gave me one last look before she followed.

I glanced around our home. The sandstone walls. The hearth and its accompanying brass pot. The worn table. The pallets stacked against the back wall where they could be brought out each night for sleeping.

I’d see this home again. There was no reason I should feel so melancholy leaving.

With a deep breath, I forced myself to walk out the door and follow my parents on the path.

We were silent as we trudged along the path and joined the slow procession of townsfolk heading for the plaza. Only a few whispers and the scuffing of feet broke the oppressive silence.

In the plaza, the population of Thysia was packed into the space. With one last hug for Mama, then Bapi, I turned away and pushed through the crowd.

At the base of the citadel steps, a line of the citadel’s guards kept back the crowd. At my approach, two of them parted, letting me through.

I forced my wobbling legs to climb the stairs, where two of the village elders stood, dressed in pure white robes. One held out a large ceramic jar. Paintings of the dragon and our village graced the jar while the rim of the jar was shaped like a dragon with its jaws gaping open.

With shaking fingers, I dropped my token into the jar. The second elder made a mark on his clay tablet, checking my name off the list. If a girl didn’t come forward, the guards would be sent to drag her to the square, and she would automatically become that year’s sacrifice.

Giving a shiver at the cold breeze whipping through the square, I turned away and strode down the steps, joining the gathering of girls at the base of the stairs, the line of guards at our backs.

Years ago, I would have stood with Clarissa. A pang still stabbed through me, though the grief was old.

Now I stood alone. I knew a few of the girls. We talked. But I had struggled to connect with anyone else after Clarissa’s loss. At first, it had felt wrong to replace my best friend, as if I would be betraying her memory.

By the time I was ready to begin healing, most of the girls my age had married. Many already had children. I didn’t fit into their lives any more than they did mine.

Two of the citadel guards strode up the steps. They brought large brass horns to their mouths, blowing a sonorous note that stilled the last restless whispers among the crowd.

I clenched my fists, straightening my spine. Next to me, one of the eighteen-year-old girls, this her first choosing, sobbed silent tears, her arms tight over her stomach as she held in her wails. A few of the other girls had tears trickling down their cheeks.

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