Chapter 2
555 Words
By the time I reached the front of the line, my feet were numb.
A royal clerk sat behind a long wooden table, surrounded by stacks of parchment. Two guards stood behind him, expressionless beneath the royal crest embroidered into their uniforms. The clerk barely looked up.
“Name?”
“Aurelia Vale.”
His quill scratched against the parchment. “Age?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Province?”
“Northmarch.”
He paused, then asked, “Family?”
I hesitated. “Vale.”
His eyes finally lifted. “That is not what I meant.”
“I know.”
He looked mildly irritated. “Father’s occupation?”
“Dead.”
The quill stopped. I regretted the answer almost immediately, but the clerk only cleared his throat and asked, “Your mother’s?”
“Seamstress.”
“And your own?”
I glanced at the stack of papers beside him. “Whatever needs doing.”
His expression didn’t change. “That is not an occupation.”
“It’s where I’m from.”
For the first time, the guard behind him looked like he was trying not to smile. The clerk sighed and wrote something down.
“Do you possess any notable skills?”
I looked at the list printed beneath the question. Reading. Music. Dance. Horsemanship. Household management. Needlework. Languages. Archery.
I almost laughed. “Archery.”
He looked up properly this time. “You use a bow?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since I was twelve.”
“Training?”
“No.”
“Then how did you learn?”
“I needed to eat.”
He stared at me for a moment before writing something down. I couldn’t see what.
“Any formal education?”
“No.”
“Can you read?”
“Yes.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “Write?”
“Yes.”
“How did you learn?”
I shrugged. “Books.”
He looked at me as though I’d given him the strangest answer of the morning. “How many?”
“Not many.”
“Which subjects?”
“Whatever I could find.”
He seemed ready to move on, then stopped. “Surely you have a favorite.”
“Whatever I haven’t read before.”
He stared at me. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, just slightly. “Step aside.”
I did, wondering for the first time that morning if I’d answered something wrong.
A woman in a dark blue gown approached before I could leave. “Miss Vale?”
I turned.
“Your registration is complete.” She held out a small wooden token, a number burned into its surface. Forty-seven.
I turned it over in my hand. “What’s this?”
“Your candidate number.”
“I thought this was only registration.”
“It is.” She smiled politely. “Registration for the Selection.”
I looked past her, at the hundreds of women still waiting in line, some crying, some praying, some whispering excitedly to their mothers. I looked back down at the token.
“I’m not going to be selected.”
She didn’t answer that. She only said, “Candidates will receive further instructions tomorrow morning,” and walked away.
I stared after her, and something told me I wasn’t going home as soon as I’d hoped.
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