By Emily Henry Burnham

Where is Awenga, the Chosen One? She has not shown up at tide today. She forms an open, empty spot between her mother and father that makes their faces flush with shame. Today was meant to be her Wading, the day she will take responsibility for the whole tribe by drowning herself in the salty sea.

The Avenzeti stand in a long line along the shore and wait for the tide to come in. They stand from dawn until dusk, from dry sand until their thighs prickle from the cold sea water as it laps at their roots with white, washing waves.

It is the yearly tradition under the harvest moon. To cleanse the past. To open the future. To measure themselves against the froth and foam that seems so soft by sight, but pulls with the strength of a god.

Awenga stands on the cliff face far above, beyond the sight of a thousand eyes that stare out at the horizon. Even if a single head turned, or all of them, they would not see.

She knows how to hide.

Because Awenga is missing, another must be put forward to wade. She watches as her uncle nudges a small boy, her cousin, out into the water. He is even younger than Awenga’s own handful of years, barely off his mother’s breast and still new to his feet. The waves are frothy, the wind strong. The small boy walks jerkily out through the first set of crests and into the second, his tiny hands open. A wave swells up before him. His head stays above water for a moment, until the third crest pulls him down.

Awenga watches as minutes pass by and the sea roils on, with no sign of her cousin. Then she sees something dark among the waves. His arms and legs sprawled. His face down.

Awenga has killed a boy. Has killed her own blood. And yet all she can think is that it was better than killing herself.

She mounts her horse and rides into the forest, away from her family, away from her home. She will never return. They would kill her on sight. Call her coward. Life stealer. Oath breaker.

She is all of these things.

But she is alive.

She is alive.