The nations are still divided despite what the High Council tries to tell us. They just can’t see it over their pompous asses. But we know. Us commoners living below them in Unifa. Such a stupid name for their “City of Peace.” Like they are trying too hard to make it work. Throwing glitter on shit and calling it a pile of gold.
The annual migrations are especially terrible. Once every year we are forced to recognize our differences as we all travel back to our respective homelands. Long drawn out lines separating us out into snakelike caravans. For as long as I could remember, I hated the migrations. I could always feel the tension murmuring through the crowds. Smell the salty sweat off flexed muscles as rival nations sized each other up. See the stirring of magic in the blessed Owls. They are the High Council’s obnoxious peacekeepers, but they are really just overpowered, entitled, magical bitches.
And now it is my year to touch our nation’s bloodstone to see if I am destined to be one of those magical bitches too.
“It’s probably going to be you,” Yanva says as she catches up to me.
“Shut the fuck up.” I give her a sharp punch on her shoulder. “Don’t even put that out into world.”
“I’m just sayin’ it’s highly probable.” Yanva ignores me and continues to follow the migration. “You’re the only candidate this year that doesn’t actually want to be an Owl and let’s face it, you’re like super unlucky.”
She’s not wrong. I do my best to stay out of trouble, but it seems as though trouble is just fixated on me. Most of the Owls in my district know me by name.
“If the bloodstone chooses me, I’ll die.” I sound so dramatic. But I legitimately think I will die inside if I’m chosen.