The Selection
Ece
The morning of the Selection, I wake before dawn with the certainty that my life is ending.
I lie in bed for twenty minutes, staring at water stains on the ceiling, listening to my mother snore in the next room. She drank herself unconscious last night, again , empty bottles scattered across the kitchen floor like fallen soldiers.
She’s been drinking more since I told her about Oliver Kerr.
Oliver, the baker’s son, safe and stable and bland as unsalted dough and about as exciting, he proposed six weeks ago, standing in his father’s shop with flour dusting his apron, looking at me like I was a particularly nice loaf he’d managed not to burn.
I said no.
My mother called me stupid, reckless and ungrateful, she said Oliver was my only chance at avoiding the Selection, that newly married women are exempt from the annual Offering, that I was throwing away safety for pride.
She wasn’t wrong about the safety part.
But she was wrong about the pride.
I didn’t reject Oliver because I thought I was too good for him. I rejected him because spending fifty years kneading dough and bearing children for a man who looked at me like I was born for him seemed like a death sentence . One that took longer but killed you just the same.
Now I’m nineteen, unmarried, eligible, exactly what she warned me about, stupid, Eve, so fucking stupid.
I drag myself out of bed and walk to the bathroom. The mirror shows me what I already know.
Dark brown skin in a city where most people are pale, riotous ginger hair currently pulled into a sleep-tangled mess, and bright blue eyes.
I wash my face with cold water, the building’s heating hasn’t worked in three years and try to tame my hair into something presentable.
The Selection isn’t about beauty, exactly. But it isn’t not about beauty either, the Lycans take what they find appealing, and while I don’t know their specific tastes, I know standing out is out of the question.
I should have dyed my hair brown or black anything less noticeable, too late now.
I dress in my best outfit: a green dress my grandmother left me when she died. Old-fashioned, the hem falling to mid-calf, the neckline modest. But the fabric is quality, and the color makes my skin glow and my eyes pop.
Stop thinking about your eyes, I tell myself, you’re just another human in a line.
I repeat this like a mantra as I braid my hair, pulling it tight against my skull. Neatly. Nothing that will garner attention.
My mother is awake when I emerge, sitting at the kitchen table with her head in her hands, the bottles are still there, five of them, cheap wine that tastes like rat piss.
“You’re really going through with this,” she says without looking up.
“I don’t have a choice.”
“You had a choice. You chose wrong.”
I don’t argue. What’s the point?
I pour myself tea we’re out of coffee again and force down a piece of stale bread. My stomach is twisted in knots, but I need to eat. No idea when I’ll get food again, if I get chosen.
“I hope you don’t get taken,” my mother says, still not looking at me. “Maybe we could move to the outskirts. I hear werewolf law is not as strict there.”
“Mom...”
“It’s going to be alright, Mom. I will be back.” I try to soothe her, though my voice cracks on the lie.
She takes a sip of her drink. “Okay.”
I leave the apartment without another word, scared to look back, scared that if I do, I’ll jinx us both.
The car waiting for me is black, government-issued, the driver expressionless, I slide into the back seat, and Greftburg’s streets swallow me whole.
The city is strange this morning.
Usually bustling by seven a.m merchants opening shops, workers heading to factories, children running to state schools. Today, it’s silent. Everyone knows what today is.
The Selection happens in the main square, a massive open space that used to host markets and festivals. Now it hosts this. This annual nightmare where the Lycans take their tribute.
Twenty humans, every year. ten men, ten women, all unmarried, all between eighteen and thirty-five, all chosen by the city’s lottery.
Except it’s not really a lottery.
Everyone knows the Selection committee takes bribes. Rich families pay to keep their children’s names out of the pool. Poor families like mine? We’re in there multiple times more chances, better odds.
Lucky us.
I arrive at the square at eight-thirty, ninety minutes before the Selection begins. I’m not the first. Already fifty or sixty people are queuing, all with white ribbons around our left wrists, marking us eligible.
Some are crying, others are blank-faced. One girl near the front is shaking so violently her knees keep buckling, and her mother stands behind the barrier, hands pressed to her mouth, tears streaming silently.
I look away.
I can’t afford sympathy. Can’t afford to feel anything right now.
No I find my place in the line. They have organized us by house, then by age. I wait.
More people arrive. The line grows. Two hundred eligible humans, all standing in neat rows like soldiers awaiting inspection.
Behind us, the city watches from windows and doorways. No one comes close. No one wants to be associated with us, in case the Lycans decide twenty isn’t enough this year.
At nine forty-five, a man in a dark suit steps onto the platform at the front of the square. Mayor Kane. Chosen to work with the Lycans after they took over fifteen years ago.
Some say he’s intelligent and brave. Most call him a traitor.
“Citizens of Greftburg,” he begins, his voice amplified by invisible speakers. “Today marks the fifteenth annual Selection. Fifteen years of peace, fifteen years of cooperation between human and Lycan. Fifteen years of…”
Someone in the crowd behind us spits.
The Mayor falters, then continues. “The Selection is not punishment, it is an honor, those chosen will serve in important capacities within Lycan territories. They will be fed, housed, compensated for their services...”
More spitting, murmurs of dissent.
The Mayor’s face reddens, but he pushes through. “The Selection will begin at ten o’clock. All eligible candidates will remain in place until the Lycan representatives arrive. Attempting to flee will result in immediate execution. Interfering with the Selection will result in immediate execution. Failing to present when called will result in…”
“Immediate execution,” someone mutters behind me. “We get it.”
The Mayor concludes his speech and steps down.
We wait.
Ten o’clock comes and goes.
Ten-fifteen.
Ten-thirty.
The longer we wait, the worse it gets. The girl at the front is openly sobbing now. Someone else faints and has to be revived by medics. A guy who couldn’t be more than nineteen vomits onto the cobblestones.
I focus on breathing.
In. Out. In. Out.
You’re invisible. Forgettable. Just another face in the crowd.
At ten forty-seven, I feel it.
That change in the air. Like pressure building before a storm. Every animal instinct I have suddenly screams one word:
PREDATOR.
The square goes silent.
Even the crying stops.
Then I see them.
Three Lycans, striding into the square like they own it.
Because they do.
