“Prisoners of the Audr Mines,” said Thyra in a surprisingly clear voice. “I have an important announcement that affects us all, from the Shadow Caverns all the way down to the prisoners in the blackest tunnels. We have negotiated an armistice with the High Elves. For the next month, there will be no hostilities.”
My heart leapt as a low cheer erupted from the line of prisoners. This was exceptional news, even if it didn’t do much to help us personally. Our families would be safe. In the thousand years of our confinement under the earth, the High Elves had never stopped trying to ruin us. If they’d agreed to a truce, it was a potentially giant breakthrough.
Or, as I quickly started to suspect, a trick.
A suspicion that Thyra immediately confirmed. “However, the High Elves have called for a Winnowing.”
At these words, gasps arose. It had been a thousand years since the last Winnowing.
“And you agreed to this?” the warden blurted out, his nostrils flaring with fear.
Thyra’s tone was grave. “Something drastic must be done to change our circumstances. This year, our mushrooms are blighted. It’s not only prisoners who are starving. We are all starving. Your families have no food. The great High Elf sorcerer Galin has returned. His magic is already strengthening the wall. This is our only chance to free ourselves. This is our only chance, and I mean our only chance, to survive.”
“What has this to do with us? The prisoners are weak. If there is to be a Winnowing, you must send our best fighters. Not these wretches!” The warden was practically yelling at Thyra. If he wasn’t careful, it would be his corpse swinging from the beam of oak above his head.
Thyra ignored him. “The terms of the armistice are that all elves are to be subject to the Winnowing. Trust me when I tell you I don’t want to send convicts and prisoners to the tournament that will define the fate of our people, but that is what we agreed on.”
“I don’t understand!” the warden nearly shouted. “The purpose of a Winnowing is to kill off the weakest of us. To strengthen our bloodlines. What does it have to do with the war?”
For the first time, Thyra smiled, silver eyes gleaming. “We have agreed on a new set of terms, warden. The tribe with the most remaining elves will rule over the others. If we win, the 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, I had to be at the Winnowing.
Next to me, Hulda whispered, her voice trembling with fear, “What color is yours?”
I stared at my paper, disappointment searing me. “White.”
Slowly, Hulda turned her parchment toward me. Inside was a smear of clotted blood. Fate had chosen this idiot.
Fate was obviously wrong—because someone like Hulda would not save us.
What happened next wasn’t so much a plan as a primal instinct; a series of steps that would get me what I wanted. What I needed. A chance to redeem myself, and to save my people. A chance to keep Barthol safe, and every other Night Elf. This Winnowing needed real warriors, and I was as good as it got down here.
Quickly, I stole a glance at the scaffold. The warden was speaking to Thyra. The guards were inspecting their papers. No one was looking in my direction. Time to put my assassin skills to use.