Page 22 of A Dance Macabre

The adjudicator of the Lottery.

The silence was already potent before she stepped onto the platform, but now that she is standing at its very center, it feels like it could suffocate me if I would only let it.

“Heirs,” she says with a stern voice, looking straight ahead. “Please come forth.”

My heart pounds in my chest when I follow her order and step onto the platform, the obsidian stone surprisingly warm.

We are all equidistant from each other, standing at the edge of the platform, dressed in similar ceremonial garb. The menare shirtless, donning a simple pair of white pants, while the women wear a white dress with a plunging neckline and exposed back. Our accouterments reveal our family sigil tattooed on the entirety of our backs.

A small emblem to honor our gods.

A glance around the platform tells me we are all equally feeling the gravity of the moment—I have never seen Gemini and Constantine this serious.

My gaze lingers on Mercy to my left. Her face is smooth and impassive.

I look away.

The Oracle stays silent long after we’ve settled into our respective places. I wipe my clammy palms inconspicuously onto my pants as I wait for her to speak and swallow a hard lump when I finally hear her voice echo magnanimously through the hall.

“It has been six thousand nine hundred and forty days since our last communion with the gods.” She pauses and spins in a slow circle as she takes the time to look every single one of us in the eyes.

When my turn comes and her blue gaze connects with my own, a cold jolt travels down my spine. Her eyes shimmer with ancient knowledge so powerful that even a Vainglory like myself would not feel worthy of its secrets.

“Gathered before us today are the fresh faces of a new epoch.” Her smile is sudden; wide, and unsettling. “Faithful servants to our all-powerful gods. From this handful of souls the next ruler will be chosen—allowing a new god to reign over Pravitia for the next six thousand nine hundred and forty days.” With a slow curl of her hand, she addresses Aleksandr first. “Aleksandr Vorovsky, heir to the last ruling family, servant of the god of excess, and slave to no vice.” Stepping up to him, she presses what looks like a small coin into his palm. Turning to thenext family, she continues, “Constantine Agonis, servant of the god of torture, and invulnerable to pain.”

Just like with Aleksandr, she hands her a coin. Constantine’s cheeks pinken, her expression turning coy as if being addressed in this manner is making her bashful.

“Gemini Foley,” the Oracle says, “Servant of the god of trickery, and impervious to all lies. Belladonna Carnalis, servant of the god of lust, and wielder of all carnality.” She hands them both a coin. Her gaze falls on Mercy, whose face is still a blank mask. “Mercy Crèvecoeur, servant of the god of death, and conduit to the afterlife.” She accepts her coin with the same leaden expression.

Finally, the Oracle’s attention swings to me. My breathing turns shallow as I try not to make a sound, sweat beading on my forehead. “Wolfang Vainglory, servant of the god of idolatry, and wielder of persuasion and worship.” When the coin makes contact with my palm, I glance down and realize it’s engraved with my family’s sigil.

She returns to the center with soft steps and falls silent once more.

The anticipation is a deliberate kind of torture to which I doubt even Constantine isn’t impervious. I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment. The Vainglorys have not been in power for over a hundred years.

It’s our time.

Mytime.

Our gazes are all trained on the Oracle as she closes her eyes, bringing her chin up while her palms are open, arms close to her body on either side of her.

Time seems to slow to a halt as we wait. The limbo feels especially great since we heirs don’t know the exact process of the Lottery, only the sacrifice we must complete. I sneak a glanceat Aleksandr but he’s studying the Oracle intently, eyebrows dipped into a severe arch.

I’m concealing a small sigh when my back begins to sting. I don’t have time to question the sensation before the smarting turns into an intense burn. I choke on a loud wheeze, eyes watering as I fall to my knees. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think my back had caught on fire.

As soon as I make contact with the floor, the coin flies out of my hand at the same time as the flames from the many torches and candles extinguish, plunging the room into total darkness. I barely hear the small gasps emanating from the crowd as I try to contain my pained whimpers, writhing in agony. The light returns in a burst of flames and then falls back to its normal state.

With it, my pain evaporates.

I’m sucking in breaths, panting in exertion as I try to force my mind to focus back on what is in front of me.

The Lottery.

Suddenly, it dawns on me.

Looking up, I find the Oracle’s glare trained on me, my coin in the center of her palm. I scramble to my feet, my heart beating wildly.

“The gods have chosen,” she says in an even tone. “Idolatry shall rule next.”

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