The Chosen: Crown of Ashes

People say the world ended in 2100. They’re wrong. The world didn’t end. It burned.

Four hundred years ago, the world we know today barely existed. There were enormous cities filled with technology, machines that could travel faster than anything we can imagine, buildings that reached higher than mountains and people who believed there was nothing they couldn’t create. Then came the Great War. No one agrees on exactly how it started anymore. Some say it was over land, others say it was over resources, power, technology or money. The Crown teaches us that humanity simply became too powerful for its own good. Whatever the truth was, the result was the same. Cities were destroyed, governments collapsed, millions died and the world our ancestors knew disappeared beneath fire and ash.

The survivors were terrified that history would repeat itself. So when they began rebuilding, they decided not to rebuild the world they had lost. They rebuilt it backwards. Advanced technology was abandoned. Machines became rare. The old systems of government disappeared. People returned to trades, farming, hunting, blacksmithing and craftsmanship. Buildings were constructed in the style of centuries before the war. Horses returned to the roads. Factories replaced laboratories. Dresses, waistcoats and long coats replaced the clothing of the old world. Society became Victorian by design, not because the past was better, but because the people who rebuilt our country believed the future was what had destroyed us.

At the centre of this new world was the Crown.

Our country is divided into twelve Provinces, all surrounding the Sovereignty, the magnificent city where the Crown rules. If you could see the country from above, the map would look almost like a wheel, with the Sovereignty at its centre and the Provinces spreading around it like pieces of a great circle. Every schoolroom has the same map hanging on its wall. I’ve stared at ours hundreds of times, tracing the faded black borders with my finger and wondering what lies beyond them.

The first Province is Rosewick, known for its textiles. Silk, velvet, lace, embroidered gowns and the finest clothing in the country are produced there. It is one of the wealthier Provinces, and its people are known for their craftsmanship. Then there is Bellmere, the coastal fishing Province, which provides the Crown with fish, salt and preserved seafood. Greyhaven comes next, the medical Province, where doctors, surgeons, apothecaries and herbalists are trained. Everden is covered in forests and supplies timber, paper and other materials made from trees. Ashbourne is the industrial Province, filled with factories that produce tools, machinery and weapons. Kingsley controls much of the country’s transport, from roads and railways to the carriages that carry goods between Provinces.

Briar is the agricultural Province and provides much of the country’s grain, fruit, vegetables and livestock. Ironvale is where the country’s iron and steel are produced, with blacksmiths forging everything from farming tools to Crown weapons. Morrow sits among the mountains and is responsible for mining coal, stone and ore. Hawthorne is known for construction, producing the bricks, stonework and architecture used throughout the country, including many of the grand buildings inside the Sovereignty.

Then there is Wren.

Province Eleven.

My home.

Wren is the Province of hunting, and it is one of the poorest places in the country. Only Province Twelve, Duskfall, is poorer. Our land is mostly forest, mountains and small villages scattered between them. Hunting isn’t a hobby here. It’s how we survive. Families track deer through the woods, trap smaller animals, tan leather, collect herbs and work with whatever the Crown demands from us. We provide meat, fur, leather, antlers and other materials to the Sovereignty. The Crown calls Wren essential to the country’s survival. Sometimes I wonder whether they remember that the people they depend on are the same people they keep struggling to survive.

Almost everything in Wren belongs to someone else. We have hunting quotas, meaning every registered hunter is expected to bring in a certain amount each season. Weapons have to be registered. Certain forests are closed to ordinary citizens because they are reserved for Crown hunting parties. Crown officials can inspect our homes and seize supplies if they believe a family has broken one of the many regulations. We pay taxes on what we earn, and the Crown takes a percentage of what we hunt. We give them the food, the leather and the resources they need. In return, they give us rules.

Duskfall, Province Twelve, has it even worse. It is the poorest Province in the country and sits beyond the main mining and industrial regions, surrounded by the remains of the old world. Its people salvage what they can from ruined buildings and forgotten machinery. They repair old objects, collect scrap metal and live among the ruins left behind by the Great War. The Crown tells us that Duskfall is the final edge of civilisation. Beyond it, according to every map, there is nothing but wilderness.

There is no Province Thirteen.

At least, that’s what we’re taught.

And then there is the Sovereignty.

The Sovereignty is unlike anywhere else in the country. While the Provinces work, the Sovereignty rules. Its streets are lined with enormous stone buildings, grand gardens and golden statues. Its people wear clothes that look untouched by poverty. Its markets are filled with foods most people in Wren could never afford. At the very centre of the city stands the Crown Palace, a vast white building with golden roofs and hundreds of windows that shine over the city like hundreds of watchful eyes.

Queen Aurelia sits at the top of it all.

She is forty-six years old and has ruled the country for years. She is elegant, composed and rarely seen without Crown officials surrounding her. Her face appears on our schoolbooks, our coins and the broadcasts that are shown throughout the Provinces. The Crown tells us she protects us. They tell us that without her, the country would collapse into the same chaos that destroyed the old world. Her son, Prince Lucien, is next in line to rule. He’s twenty years old, educated inside the palace and raised to believe that the Crown is the only thing standing between our country and another Great War.

Maybe he believes it.

Most people in the Provinces are expected to.

There are rules for everything in our country. There are rules about where we can travel, what we can own, what work we can do, how much we owe the Crown and what we are allowed to say in public. But there is one rule that every child knows better than any other.

At thirteen, every citizen becomes eligible for the Selection.

Once a year, the Crown chooses one boy and one girl from every Province. Twenty-four names are drawn. Twenty-four teenagers are taken from their homes and sent to the Games. The Games are the Crown’s greatest tradition, although I’ve never understood how something can be called a tradition when it requires children to fight for their lives.

The chosen are placed inside an arena designed by the Crown. They have to survive whatever the Crown puts in front of them, while the entire country watches. Alliances form. Alliances break. The chosen hunt one another, knowing that every person standing beside them could eventually become the person standing against them. There can only be one winner.

The winner receives the Crown’s greatest rewards: wealth, a home, food, security and privileges for their family. Their Province receives gifts and resources as well. The Crown broadcasts everything because the Games aren’t only about finding a winner. They’re about reminding the Provinces who controls them.

Twenty-four enter.

One wins.

That is how it has always been.

At least, that’s what we’re told.

I’ve always hated the way the Crown describes the people who don’t survive. They say those chosen have fulfilled their purpose. As if a person can be born with a purpose written beside their name. As if a thirteen-year-old girl can be turned into a number and a seventeen-year-old boy can become a piece on a board simply because the Crown says so.

My mother once told me that people aren’t purposes.

I didn’t understand what she meant when I was younger.

I do now.

Because tomorrow, the Selection comes to Wren.

It will happen in the centre of our village, beneath the Crown’s banners, with thousands of people watching and cameras recording every second. Everyone will gather in their finest clothes and pretend they aren’t terrified. Parents will hold their children’s hands a little tighter. Children will try not to look at the glass bowl where the names are kept.

And somewhere in that crowd will be my little sister.

Elara is thirteen.

She is old enough now.

Old enough for the Crown to take her name.

Old enough for the country to decide that her life belongs to them.

I tell myself there are thousand’s names in the Selection.

Thousand’s of chances for someone else.

Thousand’s of names that aren’t hers.

I tell myself that because there is nothing else I can do.

Tomorrow, the Crown will choose its players.

~~~

There are rules for women too, although the Crown likes to call them traditions. In Wren, men hunt. Women prepare what is brought home. That’s how it has been for generations, according to the Crown. Men are expected to learn how to track, shoot, trap and skin animals, while women are expected to cook the meat, clean the homes, mend the clothes and prepare everything the family needs. We’re taught that every person has a role, and that society works best when nobody steps outside it.

Girls begin learning almost as soon as they’re old enough to hold a needle. My mother taught me how to sew before I could properly tie my own shoes. I learned how to repair a torn sleeve, stitch a loose hem, preserve meat, bake bread and clean a kitchen until every surface shone. By the time girls reach their teenage years, we’re expected to look the part too. The Crown sends each Province materials for clothing, and the women of Wren turn them into dresses and skirts. We’re supposed to look elegant, even when our houses are falling apart. Pretty, polished and obedient. That’s the picture the Crown likes to paint.

Most days, I wear a light green corset with a frilled, layered skirt that falls almost to my ankles, white stockings and black heeled boots. The skirt is made from Crown-issued fabric, soft enough to feel expensive even though everyone in Wren knows exactly where it came from. My mother says the green suits me. I think she likes it because it makes me look like the sort of daughter the Crown expects her to have.

The problem is that I have never been particularly good at being the sort of girl the Crown expects.

My father realised that when I was eleven.

It was early morning, before sunrise, when he woke me and told me to get dressed quietly. I remember thinking I was in trouble. Instead, he handed me a coat, a pair of old trousers that belonged to him when he was younger and a pair of boots far too big for my feet.

Then he took me into the forest.

He taught me how to hold a bow.

Not the decorative little bows some girls receive for festivals. A real hunting bow. He showed me how to stand, how to draw the string, how to keep my breathing steady and how to wait. Hunting wasn’t about firing as quickly as possible. It was about patience.

The first time I released an arrow, I missed.

The second time, I missed too.

The third time, I hit the target.

My father smiled.

He never told me I couldn’t hunt because I was a girl.

He probably knew I would ignore him if he did.

After that morning, the forest became my secret.

A year later, I met Elias Hart.

Elias was the first person outside my family who knew what I was doing.

He caught me sneaking through the trees one morning with my bow over my shoulder. Instead of telling anyone, he asked if he could come with me.

That was how it started.

For six years, we’ve been sneaking out before dawn.

Every morning we can.

While the rest of Wren is still asleep, while the streets are empty and the Crown’s clocks haven’t begun counting the day’s working hours, Elias and I disappear into the forest. We take our bows, our arrows and whatever food we can carry with us. We hunt for ourselves.

Not for the Crown.

Not for a quota.

Not for a Crown official waiting at the end of the day with a ledger.

For our families.

Anything we bring home belongs to us.

That’s what makes it worth the risk.

The Crown never knows how much we hunt because none of it goes through the official system. We don’t register the kills. We don’t report the meat. We don’t tell anyone where we’ve been. We divide what we bring between our families and make sure nobody notices that the food came from anywhere other than the kitchens and markets.

It’s the closest thing I have to freedom.

The forest doesn’t care that I’m a girl.

The trees don’t care about the Crown’s rules.

The deer don’t care who is supposed to hold the bow.

And Elias never cared either.

He’s my best friend. He has been for years. He knows the version of me that exists outside dresses and corsets, outside kitchens and Crown expectations. He knows how many arrows I carry without having to ask. He knows which paths I take through the forest. He knows when I’m lying about being tired.

He also knows that I’m terrible at admitting when I’m wrong.

Unfortunately, he’s not the only person who knows my secret.

I met Cassian Rowan because of one mistake.

I stayed out too late.

It had been getting dark when I realised how much time had passed. Elias had already gone home, but I’d stayed behind, determined to track something I’d spotted deeper in the forest. By the time I started walking back, the sun had disappeared behind the trees.

Then I heard a branch snap.

I turned around with my bow already in my hands.

Cassian stood between the trees.

He was fourteen then, a year older than me, and already tall enough to make me wonder if he’d ever stopped growing. He had dark hair, sharp blue-grey eyes and the most irritatingly calm expression I’d ever seen.

His eyes moved from my face to the bow.

Then back to my face.

“You know girls aren’t allowed to hunt.”

I remember gripping the bow tighter.

“You know you’re annoying.”

He smiled.

“I could tell the Crown.”

I told him he wouldn’t.

He said he would.

I told him to try.

He didn’t.

Instead, he kept my secret.

But he never let me forget that he knew it.

Every time we crossed paths after that, he’d make some comment about whether I had been enjoying my little hunting trips. Sometimes he’d ask whether my mother knew where I was. Sometimes he’d simply look at my bow and smile like he knew something I desperately didn’t want him to know.

I hated him for it.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Cassian and I have never been friends.

We’ve argued over paths, hunting grounds, arrows, traps and practically anything else two people can argue about. He’s competitive. I’m stubborn. He’s convinced he’s always right. I’m convinced he’s usually wrong. Neither of us is particularly good at backing down.

For years, I’ve wondered why he never told anyone.

I’ve never asked.

Maybe it’s because he understands what it means to break the Crown’s rules.

Maybe it’s because he has secrets of his own.

Or maybe he just enjoys having something over me.

Whatever the reason, Cassian Rowan has been a problem for me for six years.

~~~

The morning of the Selection arrives quietly.

No dramatic warning.

No thunder.

No sign from the sky that today is the day the Crown chooses twenty-four lives.

I wake before anyone calls my name.

For a moment, I lie still beneath the blankets, staring at the ceiling and listening to the house breathe around me. The walls creak softly. Somewhere downstairs, I can hear my mother moving through the kitchen. A cupboard closes. Then another.

My stomach twists.

Today.

I sit up.

At the foot of my bed is the dress my mother laid out the night before. It’s the nicest thing I own.

The corset is butter yellow, softer than the pale green one I usually wear, with tiny gems sewn into the fabric around the neckline and waist. They’re not real jewels, of course. Nothing in Wren is that extravagant. They’re fragments of discarded glass and polished material, carefully cut and sewn into the fabric until they catch the light like something valuable.

The skirt beneath it is long and layered, with delicate frills around the edges. The Crown sends the materials, and the women of Wren turn them into whatever dresses we’re expected to wear for important occasions.

The Selection is considered important.

I suppose that’s one word for it.

I get out of bed and cross to the little washroom attached to my room. The water is cold enough to make me gasp when I step beneath it, but it wakes me properly. I wash my hair, scrub the sleep from my face and try not to think about what is waiting outside.

When I return to my room, my hair is still damp.

On my desk sits the strangest-looking object in the house.

My curling brush.

It isn’t really a brush in the way Crown-made ones are. There’s no polished metal or perfect handle. It’s made from a piece of carved wood, with small discarded materials fitted into it wherever we could make them work.

Elara and I made it ourselves years ago.

We found the pieces in a scrap pile behind one of the workshops and spent an entire afternoon trying to work out how to turn them into something useful. The first version barely worked. The second caught my hair so badly that Elara laughed for nearly ten minutes while I tried to pull it free.

This one actually works.

Mostly.

I section my hair and slowly curl the ends, watching the auburn strands twist around the rough wooden brush. When I’m finished, my hair falls in thick waves around my shoulders, deep copper and auburn where the morning light catches it.

I study my reflection.

I’ve never thought much about my appearance.

Other people have, though.

At school, people often tell me I’m pretty. I have fair skin scattered with freckles across my nose and cheeks, though the summer sun gives my skin a little colour. My eyes are grey-green, with a faint ring of gold around the pupils that becomes more noticeable in bright light. My eyelashes are long, my cheeks naturally pink, and my nose is small and straight beneath a narrow forehead. My jaw is defined, and a tiny scar cuts through one eyebrow from a childhood accident with a bow. I also have a notably thin waist, probably from undereating and malnutrition. Most of the girls at school are slim, the boys are strong and muscular from hunting. I burn a lot more than I put on, I guess. Running about in the woods and such.

My hair is probably the thing people notice first.

Then my eyes.

Then, apparently, everything else.

I’ve never understood why boys make such a fuss about it.

At school, there have always been boys who wanted my attention. Sometimes it was me they liked. Sometimes it was one of my friends. Occasionally, boys would argue over it, which I found more embarrassing than flattering.

I’ve dated a few. I’ve kissed a few. Nothing serious. Nothing that made my heart race for the right reasons.

Most of the time, I liked them because they were nice, or funny, or because everyone else seemed to think I should. I never understood the sort of feelings people wrote about in books, the kind that supposedly changed everything.

Maybe I’m simply not built for that. Or maybe I’ve just never met the right person. I don’t spend long thinking about it. There are more important things to worry about. I finish getting dressed.

The butter-yellow corset fits tightly around my waist, the tiny pieces of glass catching the light whenever I move. The layered skirt falls around my legs, brushing against my white stockings. I pull on my black heeled boots and fasten them carefully.

Then I look at myself again. For a moment, I look exactly like the Crown wants a girl from Wren to look. Neat. Elegant. Presentable. Almost like I belong somewhere other than here. A knock sounds against my door.

“Di?”

Elara. I turn.

“Come in.”

The door opens, and my little sister steps inside. She’s already dressed. For a second, neither of us says anything. Then she looks at me.

“Your hair looks nice.”

I smile faintly.

“Yours does too.”

She walks closer, staring at the little gems on my corset.

“Those are pretty.”

“Don’t get any ideas. They’re staying on.”

She smiles.

“I wasn’t going to steal them.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“Maybe.”

I laugh quietly.

It lasts for about three seconds.

Then the silence returns.

The Selection. Neither of us says it. We don’t need to. Downstairs, I can hear my father moving around. My mother calls that breakfast is ready. I take one last look at myself in the mirror. Then I turn away. Today is Choosing Day.

And for the first time in my life, I understand why everyone is afraid of it.