I shake my head as the camera pans left to their only son.
It’s rare to see Prince Kevon on OasisVision, and it’s clear from the rigid set of his shoulders that he’d rather be out doing what Royals do when they’re not posing for the camera. He wears a less ornate version of his father’s jacket and looks like he hasn’t so much as picked up a shovel. Glossy, blue-black hair sweeps over a strong brow and curls around prominent cheekbones. He combines Queen Damascena’s beauty with the rugged masculinity of King Arias. His eyes are so dark, it’s hard to tell if they’re blue or brown or black.
Ryce turns to me. “What do you think?”
I grimace and glance at the other Harvesters in the crowd. Some of the younger girls stand with their hands clasped together in prayer to His Royal Pamperedness, and others sigh as though he was the most handsome young man in Phangloria. He isn’t.
With enough sustenance, rest, and an army of beauticians, anyone can look as good as Prince Kevon. Ryce works out in the sun all day, and he is breathtaking.
Leaning into him, I say, “He’s too pretty for my tastes.”
Ryce returns his hand on the small of my back, and all the tension leaves me in an instant.
“Your Highness,” says an unseen, sycophantic voice. “Do you have a message for the young hopefuls vying to become your bride?”
I’m not sure why, but I’m holding my breath.
“Good luck,” he enunciates in the clipped accent everyone uses on OasisVision. “I look forward to meeting you all in person.”
The camera pans back to Queen Damascena, and the voice asks, “As a former winner of the Princess Trials, what advice can you share with the Harvester girls competing for one of the remaining six places?”
I whirl around and whisper, “Six?”
Someone behind us hisses at me to be quiet. Ryce raises a shoulder. “Only five Echelons qualify, and thirty girls will be invited to the palace. It’s an equal split.”
I clench my teeth. Five-thousand Nobles live in Phangloria. At a rough estimate, ten percent of them are aged sixteen to twenty-one. With half of them being male, that means two-hundred-and fifty Noble girls competing for six places.
There are about two-hundred-and-twenty-thousand Harvesters. I clutch my temple and blink the spots out of my eyes. Using the calculations above, eleven-thousand girls will compete for six places. Nausea roils in my stomach, and all thoughts of a glorious revolution evaporate into the ether.
Music restarts, snapping me out of my musings, and Montana winks at the camera. “Good luck, ladies of the Harvest. Please make your way to the marquees set up in each of your towns where your carriage awaits. I look forward to meeting you all at the Oasis!”
My throat dries, and I picture the largest possible vehicles in Phangloria—long-distance stagecoaches that transport guards to the border hold sixty-four passengers. Since the Harvester region holds sixteen towns, it means that only four girls will be selected from Rugosa.
Ryce claps me on the back. “Fall out, soldier. Mother will station someone close to the capital. Report back as soon as you find the hidden passages.”
I nod and turn to the marquee, where every single Harvester—young, old, male, and female—are also heading. The crowd surges forward, leaving no gaps. I run around the perimeter, looking for an opening, but they’ve already formed a tight, impenetrable huddle.
People spill out of the dome, but they can’t move beyond the crowd blocking the marquee’s entrance. Excited cheers and shouts fill my ears and make them ring. My jaw clenches. At this rate, they will have already selected which girls will make it to the carriage. If I don’t do something drastic, I might be withered and old before our next chance for a revolution.
Gunshots explode around the square’s perimeter, and everybody stops.
“Everybody back,” roars a voice over the speakers. “Only girls between the ages of sixteen and twenty-one may approach.”
Guards force the crowd back, and there’s enough space for me to squeeze through the other Harvesters. Time is running out. The screen switches to a gorgeous flaxen-haired Harvester girl walking through the door with two equally beautiful twins who can only be her sisters. They have similar delicate features to Queen Damascena. I’ve seen them around Rugosa. This footage has to be our square. I’ve got to hurry before they fill their quota.
A quartet of oafish men steps in my path, their huge bodies an impenetrable wall.
Just before I yell at them to step aside, someone behind me cries out. The crowd parts to reveal a pair of guards looping their arms around a dark-skinned man. They’re dragging him toward a black van. He falls to the ground and loses his cap.
When they hoist him up, it’s Krim.
And my supervisor’s eyes lock with mine, mirroring my horror.
Blood drains from my face and settles in my pounding heart. This arrest had to be about the guard I attacked earlier. I rush forward, my arms outstretched. “Hey, it wasn’t—”
Something catches my foot. I trip and stumble onto my hands and knees.
“What do you think you’re doing?” says a girl who kneels at my side and helps me to my feet.
I meet Forelle’s wide, gray eyes and blurt, “They’re taking Krim—”
“And you want to tell them about your poisoned darts?” she hisses into my ear. With the strength of a girl used to digging trenches in hard, dry earth, she hauls me away from Krim and into the crowd.
Guilt lances through my heart, and I twist around. A guard punches Krim on the back, making him cry out and arch.
“I’ve got to help him.”
“You’ll condemn us
