Prologue

A minute till midnight.

The Timekeeper stands tall above the court. Crowds of people standing as stiff as boards peering up at the face of their nightmares. Waiting with fear and anticipation for what they know is to come.

One more minute, everyone thinks.

One more minute until it happens.

The sound of the gears turning and the ticks of the second hand are the only things audible in the otherwise silent scene.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

Midnight.

Time stops.

No one dares to move.

The ticks of the sweep hand become thunderous. The town holds its breath and waits.

Not even a second later, they hear the inevitable screams of Aniya'lynn.

The Crown Matriarch of Tlocc Kown. A thirteen-year-old girl who'd taken on a task far too big.

Their leader falls off the edge of the clock just as the last bell rings. The deep ear-splitting sound of the bells drowns out her scream. As they're forced to watch, their beloved Matriarch fall toward the ground.

They don't hear her hit the ground.

But they don't need to.

They knew this would happen. They knew when she was chosen that this was how it would end. The crowd is quiet and grief-stricken. Many wore placid looks on their faces, for they had no faith that she'd accomplish what no other could.

Year 29 of free-falling leaders.

Chapter 1

Amorae

Red and gold confetti rain down as fireworks paint the sky in an explosion of light. Patrons line either side of the road, stations set to sell desserts, cuisine, and goods from their hometowns. Performers dance and flip down the road, leading the way for the stampede of parade floats that follow behind. Families dance and sing as a live band plays the Tlocc Kown national anthem atop a bright red float with a golden Timekeeper seated on the back end. Children weave through the crowd with sparklers and streamers, taking part in the annual celebration of the Investitures Jamboree. This festival decides the ruler of our country for the next year.

Or more.

If she's lucky.

As the night progresses, more children line up to purchase cookies from my station.

Usually, Mother and I run the station together. We've used her molasses cookie recipe every year, complete with a simple Timekeeper design that the locals adore.

This year was the first time I'd made the cookies on my own. Every other year, Mother had been there to assist and give me pointers. We'd always made the cookies together, and at the Jamboree, she'd man the booth while I went and advertised.

But this year, she and Father decided to take a vacation and won't be back until mid-March. Leaving me alone to bake and sell the cookies. They came out all right if you ask me. I haven't gotten any complaints yet.

My mother isn't from Tlocc Kown like Father and me. She'd traveled all over the world as a journalist before she decided to settle down. She'd been visiting Tlocc Kown for research and subsequently fell in love.

Well, that's the short version of the story.

Father owns a dock, ironically in a city named Docks, where he mends boats for a living. Seeing as Tlocc Kown is a reserved country, not many people come to trade. Most of my father's work comes from local fishing boats that have gone out of service.

One day in mid-June, as my mother recalled, she'd just come into Tlocc Kown and needed a place to stay. Since Father was hard on money due to the lack of clientele, he kindly offered her his shed. As the summer progressed, she and Father grew closer, often working on boats together and swapping stories of their hometowns. Father loved to tell me about how intriguing my mother's life was. Even aside from her peculiar appearance of dark skin and ankle-length locs, the stories and culture that she carried with her were enthralling.

Father never found me as "enthralling" as he found my mother. He actually thought the exact opposite. He'd never wanted children. And believe me, he never once let me forget how he viewed me.

I mean, sure, he was a good dad in the textbook sense. He fed me, clothed me, and made sure I was healthy. But he was never the one to talk to me, celebrate holidays, or enjoy living in any sense; unless it had to do with Mother. Mother made sure to fill the gaps, though.

When he'd forgotten my birthday, she'd get me twice as many gifts and sing twice as many songs. It's happened so many times that it's become a tradition to celebrate holidays two times in one day. She was there when the girls at the city school laughed at my locs. It was then that she started homeschooling me and taught me to stand up for myself. She taught me to be confident in my abilities and know who I was for myself rather than through others.

I've missed my mother more than anything. We were best friends. She was my only friend. We'd hang out all the time, reading and sewing; sometimes we'd even go and help dad on the dock.

Okay, I'll admit, saying all this at once makes me seem incredibly lame, but it's truly what I do for fun. Or did for fun before they left. Like I said, I love my mother more than anything, but I don't understand how she could just leave. A vacation couldn't have been that important to her that she'd leave me alone for months, could it?

"Excuse me! Ma'am, are you still selling those cookies? You'll go broke if you keep staring into space." A fourteen-year-old girl shouts as if I'm not a foot and a half away from her.

"Of course I am; they won't sell themselves," I mumble, irritated she'd caught me off guard.

"That'll be 5 ticks, please!" I announce while checking a tally off my sales list.

I'll admit, I did increase the price because of my poor ego, but it was only by two ticks! The cookies are cheaper than they should be anyway. I could have charged a couple of dials like the other booths do, but my mother prides herself on the affordability of ours.

"Excuse me? The sign says 3 ticks, and it has for years now! You can't just raise the price; that's absurd!" she whines in frustration.

"Well, if you want a cookie, you'll hand over the extra ticks or leave my booth," I calmly reply, angering her more than before.

She slaps the ticks on the booth, and I pick them up with a satisfied smile playing on my lips. I look down at my station and hesitate for a few seconds.

The pile of cookies that had once been perfectly stacked in a pyramid lies sprawled across the table. The flaps of my booth flow in the wind as I search the surrounding area for the culprit.

Some kid must have tried to steal a cookie without me looking. I'll have to keep watch for later.

Grabbing a cookie at random, I thrust it towards the girl. I smile at the red hue of embarrassment that coats her cheeks as she struts away.

I continue selling for a couple hours. The girl slips my mind and my anger slowly fades into anxiety as the bell atop the Timekeeper Fortress rings, signaling that the Investiture has begun.

The parade floats are long gone, replaced with the Defenders, Tlocc Kown's militia who now march down the road. There are hundreds of them crowding the streets, passing by clad in their red and gold armor. Sure, the soldiers look scary; they'd be the epitome of intimidation if it weren't for the little white baskets they carry, likening them to flower girls at a wedding.

Each basket holds one letter for every eligible girl in Tlocc Kown. And somewhere among all the blank, meaningless pieces of paper, there is one letter marked with a symbol that sends a shiver down every citizen's spine.

A Timekeeper.

I resist an eye roll at the thought. I never really understood the whole Timekeeper worship thing. I mean, we don't literally worship it, but it's everywhere. I get it's an act of patriotism and respect for the country, but I never really understood the fascination with something that causes so much death to innocent people. It's psychotic, if you ask me.

The Defenders made their rounds, ensuring everyone eligible received a letter. Failure to comply with the Investiture tradition would result in serious consequences. I've never witnessed anyone try to opt out, but I've heard stories of a girl being put to death after being caught throwing her letter in the garbage.

Looking at my wrist, I ensure my eligibility symbol is clear to the passing Defenders. I don't want to take any chances as the story replays in my head.

A Defender approaches, keeping his eyes forward, as I suspect he's been trained to do. He has pale skin, maybe about six shades lighter than mine, and is about seven inches above my five-foot-seven frame. His helmet sways with every move because of how big it sits on his head. He looks a little young to be a Defender, but he plays the role flawlessly.

He hands me my letter and seamlessly returns to the herd of soldiers as if he'd never left. I fondle the letter in my hand and catch a glimpse of the bright gold seal that holds the letter shut. My entire body freezes, the letter held taut between my thumb and index.

Usually, the seal glows red.

Maybe they've changed the color since last year. It's a simple solution; there's no need to lose your mind over a simple change in stationery.

But to be sure, I peek at the girl next to me.

It's red.

My heart falls to the pit of my stomach. I bite my lip as I try to compile a logical explanation for the difference in color. It's not a big deal. Maybe the different color seals don't mean anything. A different Defender had delivered her letter. Maybe the colors are assigned to Defenders. It'd be stupid if the seal determined the choice. There would be no use for the content inside.

A half hour passes, and the more I wait, the more anxious I become. My eighteenth birthday is in seven more months. I am in my last year of eligibility to be a Matriarch. I'm not sure why the eligibility age is so young. But the older I get, the more my selfishness grows. I think that's what's the issue with this nation. We all become selfish and only see our own problems. It's why we still participate in brutal traditions like this, because they are comfortable and only harm the ill-fated parties involved.

Finally, the bell chimes again, signaling the letter opening ceremony. My heart beats so loudly in my ears that it could be mistaken for a bass drum playing the national anthem. I glance around and see families peeling the letters open, sighing in relief and celebration at the confirmation that their daughters are safe to live another year.

What I don't see is a family crying, which there is every year. It doesn't usually take long for the Chosen to open her letter. My hesitation is abnormal. She'd be sure to know by now.

My anxiety swells as I finally decide to rip off the bandage. My fate was sealed when I received it, so I may as well accept it. I open the letter, bracing myself for what lies inside.

My blood runs cold when I unfold the page.

It's blank.