Oredison Palace, Gazda.

The day of the announcement.

Once, when Viera was seven years old, she had tried to cut the mark from her flesh. This had been before her mother's accident, before Viera really understood what being goddess-chosen meant. To her, being marked was an outer sign of the poison she could so often feel slithering in her blood. She believed that to remove the mark would fix everything. No mark, no poison.

The kids at school wouldn't be afraid of her and she could be normal again.

So, she had stolen a razor from her father's shaving kit. It took her days to work up the courage to actually use the blade. But she had wanted it gone desperately. So, she had tried to cut it off.

Colette had found Viera wedged between the dresser and the wall, crying as she slowly sliced at her skin. Her older sister had screamed and her mother had come running into the bedroom, pale with fear.

There had been a lot of blood.

She had cut and cut and cut, trying to scrape the mark from her skin. It worked. She managed to scrape the mark off. In its place was only a deep, bloody gash. For two weeks, Viera's wrist was bandaged and the mark was gone. She told all the kids at her school what had happened—promised them that she wasn't marked anymore. They could play with her now, it was safe.

Viera had told them she was normal.

But she wasn't normal and she would never be normal.

Viera could remember sitting on the edge of the kitchen table as her mother had carefully unwrapped the binding on her wrist. She had lifted the fabric just enough to glance at it, but had frozen in surprise. The cuts were healed and the mark—the mark was just as brazenly evident as ever. It was as if the goddess had repainted it over her mended skin.

Her mother had held her as she'd sobbed.

There was nothing else Lorna Kevlar could do. Her daughter was dreadfully lonely and she was destined for a competition she couldn't even begin to really understand. At seven years old, Viera hadn't wanted a crown—she'd wanted friends. She had wanted her father's approval. Seeing the mark still on her skin, even after she had been willing to hurt herself to remove it, had been devastating.

She had never tried again.

Now Viera was sitting in a beautiful palace, over ten years later, watching as a stranger scrubbed a hard bristle brush on that same patch of skin. The woman had been messing with the mark for twenty minutes, scrubbing it and trying different tonics and creams. They were checking to make sure it wasn't a tattoo. Why anyone would fake a goddess-given mark and join the Culling, Viera didn't know.

She wanted to tell the woman that.

But Viera found that her mouth no longer worked to form words. She had arrived at the palace late the night before. She had been brought directly to a bedroom and left there to sleep. Guards were posted at her door and on the balcony outside. She couldn't leave.

Viera had cried herself to sleep.

She'd awoken that morning to the presence of strangers and a lavish breakfast. The prince wanted her to speak before the press and announce herself publicly into the Culling. He'd sent these women, these stylists, to clean her up and prepare her for the task. There had been a note from him, reminding her of their deal and telling her that the women would report her movements.

Viera darling, make sure to keep your poisonous little hands to yourself—I'd hate for your little friend to pay the price for your stupidity.

The stylists had frowned when they'd seen the bruise on her neck, noted the dark swollen circles and the redness of her tired eyes. But none of them had asked her about it. No one said a word to her.

It didn't matter. She wasn't a person anymore.

***

When her arm was scrubbed raw, the skin flaring red around the still intact mark, she was stripped naked. At first, she had panicked, tried to twist away from the hands that reached to unbutton her shirt and made to tug down her pants. But fighting them did no good. They had a job to do and she was merely a cog in the overall machine of the Culling. So, she let the women undress her.

She was sat, naked, on a cold wooden chair while they brushed out her dark hair. A bath filled, the sound of it a dull rushing sound in the back of her mind. They spoke amongst themselves, discussing Viera's physical assets and flaws. These things were compared to qualities of the other goddess-touched girls.

What dress would make her stand out? In the line of up, which of the heirs was the prettiest? Which would make the stateliest looking queen?

As they worked, Viera felt herself slipping back into that internal darkness, the expanse of poison and blazing venom that welcomed her. She couldn't remember what the last thing Leighton had said to her was. She tried and tried to remember. But that thread of memory was elusive, always at the tip of her mind, right out of her reach.

Her brain was now a projector, constantly replaying the moments on the train. She had started to panic in the crowd. Everyone was moving so slow, and then everyone had been moving so quickly. Colors were too vivid, lights too bright. People had been screaming. Leighton had been at her side one second and then gone the next. Then she was on her knees in front of Malcolm and he was stroking her cheek and eyeing her body and telling her he was going to kill Leighton.

She could not believe that all of that had happened yesterday.

Gentle hands pulled her to her feet and led her towards a steaming bathtub. They didn't leave her alone to bathe, but they didn't try to touch her again. For a long time, Viera just sat in the hot water her knees curled to her chest.

The door to the bathroom was open and one of the stylists leaned against the doorframe, watching her. Beyond that, the other women chatted and discussed clothes. What might she wear for the announcement that evening? What about the private dinner set for the end of the week?

Viera closed her eyes and sank deeper into the tub, slipping her entire body beneath the rose-scented water and letting it encase her in its near-searing warmth. Their talking turned to garbled murmurs. She wondered, just briefly, what they would do if she tried to drown herself in the tub. Surely, they would stop her, try to save her—their necks would be on the line if a goddess-touched girl were killed.

It would be easy to breathe the water in. And maybe drowning wouldn't be so bad. She wanted to do it. Then everything would stop. Goddess, Viera wanted everything to stop.

She waited until her lungs were burning and she could not withstand even one more second, then she lifted her head from the water. She inhaled, exhaled. She opened her eyes—

"Good morning, Viera."

She nearly screamed as she found Malcolm standing over the bathtub watching her. She scrambled to cover herself with her hands, tried to angle the front of her body away from him and towards the wall of the tub.

He smiled and shoved his hands in his pockets. "No need to panic. I've seen it all before."

Her breathing turned erratic as she wondered just how long he'd been standing there, watching her. How long he'd been looking at her naked body. She watched him over a shoulder, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "What are you doing here?"

"It's my house."

Her face felt like it was on fire. "Get out."

"Well, aren't we irritable this morning." He eased onto the edge of the tub. "And here I was thinking we'd become friends."

"Get out," she repeated.

He shook his head. "No. No, I don't think I will."

"Malcolm—"

"I don't believe I gave you permission to call me by my name."

"Your Highness, please leav—"

Malcolm spoke over her. "I was just coming to check on you. I wanted to make sure you were behaving. I also wanted to update you on your friend. He's been delivered to one of the work camps, I won't tell you which one because I wouldn't want you to get any ridiculous ideas. But I thought you might want to know."

She swallowed and forced her voice to remain unshaken as she whispered, "Thank you for telling me. Now, will you please—"

"He's mouthy, your friend. I went to see him after I'd finished with you yesterday. I told him all about our deal, and how easy it was to get you on your knees." Malcolm smirked at that. "Of course, I may have spiced things up a bit. I didn't exactly explain what you were doing while you were on your knees. I thought it better to let him use his imagination. I suppose you could call it artistic liberties. Anyway, the poor thing was quite surprised to hear just how persuasive your pretty little mouth can be." He watched her face as he said, "Judging by the look on his face, I must have painted a very vivid mental image. He told me exactly where I could go."

Malcolm sighed and ran his eyes along Viera's body. She waited, her breath caught in her chest, as he chewed on what he wanted to say next. Dread, white-hot and simmering, filled her gut.

His voice was soft, teasingly apologetic as he said, "I admit I lost my temper. I just kept imagining him touching my belongings. I've never been very good at sharing my toys." Malcolm reached out and touched her hair, brushing the wet strands back behind her ear as he whispered, "Viera, darling, I'm afraid I broke my promise to you."

She tensed, both from his words and from the hand he placed on her curled knee. He let his hand slide across her wet skin, following the line of her thigh, down below the surface of the water. Viera yanked away, sliding as far back as she could get.

The prince withdrew his fingers, his eyes sparkling with a predatory sort of lust. He smirked at her as he said, "I'm afraid your friend no longer has his tongue."

A sound ripped from her chest. Raw and pained.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes, as if that could block out the truth—as if that could block out Malcolm's words as he continued, "He fought valiantly. It took nearly a dozen guards to hold him down while it was done. I considered killing him outright. I worried that he might be too strong-willed for the slave camps—but I had made a promise to you. So off he went." The prince tsked, "He could have risen very high in the guard, it's really a shame what you did to him."

The world spun as her mind again replayed her final moments with Leighton on the train. She couldn't remember what his last words to her had been. It all blurred together. Her memory was a whirlwind of cattails and kisses and promises and stolen moments. So many stolen moments. She couldn't think past the roaring in her ears, the sudden darkness that lunged, yanking against what was left of her internal tether.

Viera began to shake.

Malcolm watched her; his head tilted to one side. He waited for her to speak—but she did not, could not. He stood up. "I'll see you at the announcement. Don't be late."

His boots echoed off the bathroom tiles as he strode away from her. The stylist at the door bowed slightly as he walked past. The outer door to her chambers shut with a resounding click.

For a long moment, Viera couldn't move. She imagined Leighton held down on a table. What fear he must have felt. And the pain. Goddess, the pain he must have experienced. The thought of him fighting, being overwhelmed by so many hands and arms—she could not—it was—

Viera gripped the edge of the tub.

They had taken his voice.

And it had been taken because of her.

Her grip on the tub tightened as she lifted herself over the edge and vomited all over the crisp clean tiles below.