The king’s men arrive at dawn, their banners stiff with frost and their wagon wheels ringing like bells against the frozen road.

  Eric hears them before he sees them, the low murmur of voices, the iron-shod clatter, the sharp crack of a whip urging horses forward. By the time he reaches the village green, half the town is already gathered, boots sinking into churned mud glazed with last night’s ice.

  They always come for the year-end festival. Always with noise. Always with reminders.

  The wagons roll in two neat lines, lacquered wood painted in royal blue and trimmed with gold leaf that catches the pale winter sun. Steel-rimmed wheels chew through the mud without slowing, and the horses, huge, well-fed beasts, snort clouds of white vapor. Men in cloaks of crimson and black sit high on the benches, faces hidden beneath fur-lined hoods, hands resting easily near sword hilts.

  Eric pulls his threadbare coat tighter around himself and joins the cluster of boys his age near the old well.

  “Thought they’d be late this year,” says Tomas, rubbing his hands together. “Road from the capital’s half frozen.”

  “They don’t get delayed,” Mara says. She stands with her arms crossed, chin lifted in defiance she doesn’t quite feel. “They get waited on.”

  A few of the older boys laugh. Branik does not. He leans against the well’s stone lip, taller than most of them already, his father’s old boots too big for his feet. His eyes track the wagons with open dislike.

  “Look at that,” Branik mutters. “Six wagons. Last year was four.”

  “They bring more every year,” Tomas says. “More men. More eyes.”

  Eric says nothing. He watches the banners instead, golden sigils stitched into heavy cloth. A crown encircled by runes he cannot read. The symbol of the Kingstone authority. The mark of judgment.

  The festival begins the way it always does: with forced cheer.

  Stalls open along the green, offering spiced cider watered down to stretch farther than it should, loaves of bread shaped like suns, strings of dried apples. A fiddler plays too fast, as if speed alone can keep the cold from settling into his bones. Children run, slipping and shrieking, their laughter sharp and brittle as icicles.

  Eric helps his mother sell wool scarves from a crooked table near the chapel steps. She smiles at customers, nods respectfully when a king’s man passes too close, and never once looks directly at their faces.

  “Mind your tongue,” she murmurs without turning. “And your eyes.”

  “I know,” Eric says.

  He does. Everyone does.

  By midmorning, the snow begins.

  At first it’s almost gentle, fat, slow flakes drifting down as if uncertain. The crowd murmurs, a sound like a held breath.

  First snowfall.

  Eric feels it before he understands it. A tightening in his chest. A sudden weight settling over the green.

  The bell tolls once.

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  Then again.

  The fiddler stops playing. Conversations die mid-sentence. Even the children fall quiet as the chapel bell rings a third time, its iron voice carrying across the village and into the fields beyond.

  A king’s man steps onto the raised platform beside the well. He is broad-shouldered, his cloak clasped with silver. When he speaks, his voice cuts cleanly through the cold.

  “By decree of the Crown and the authority of the Kingstone,” he announces, “the Supplicant Year is declared.”

  The words land like a blow.

  Eric’s breath fogs thick in front of his face. He counts the beats of his heart without meaning to. One. Two. Three.

  Those born in the past year shift closer to their parents. Those older, his age, stand frozen where they are.

  The king’s man continues. “All citizens of sixteen winters are now recognized as supplicants. You will present yourselves when called. You will obey all lawful commands. You will not flee.”

  Eric feels his mother’s hand grip his arm.

  Sixteen.

  The number echoes in his head, hollow and relentless. He turned sixteen two weeks ago. He remembers because his mother baked bread sweetened with honey she’d saved all autumn.

  He is a supplicant.

  Around him, the village changes shape. Lines form without instruction. Names are written down. A clerk dips his quill, ink freezing thickly at the tip. Eric steps forward when told, legs heavy, boots slipping in the mud.

  “Name,” the clerk says.

  “Eric,” he answers. His voice sounds smaller than it should. “Eric Hale.”

  The quill scratches. The clerk does not look up.

  When Eric steps back, the snow thickens. Wind sweeps down from the hills, sharp and sudden, driving the flakes sideways. The cold bites through wool and skin alike, immediate and cruel.

  Freezing rain follows, slicking the ground, turning mud into a sucking trap. Sleet rattles against wagon sides like thrown gravel.

  The king’s men do not move.

  Servants leap down to spread planks beneath the wagon wheels. Canvas is unfurled, oiled and heavy, creating shelter. Lanterns are lit beneath awnings. Someone laughs, warm, unbothered.

  Eric watches Mara struggle as her foot slides, watches Branik catch her elbow before she falls.

  “Careful,” Branik says.

  “Careful won’t help,” she snaps, but she doesn’t pull away.

  The divide is unmistakable now.

  The king’s men stay mounted or seated, boots dry, cloaks thick. They eat from hot tins and drink steaming broth. Their horses are blanketed. Their wagons stand solid and unmoved.

  Everyone else stands in the sleet.

  Mud coats Eric’s boots up to the ankle. Cold seeps through the seams. His fingers ache, numb and burning all at once. He tucks them under his arms and stares at the platform, jaw clenched.

  A pair of boys from the mill, older, broad-backed, shoulder past him.

  “Supplicant,” one of them says under his breath, not bothering to hide the sneer.

  Eric stiffens. “So are you.”

  The boy grins. “Not for long. My uncle’s in the capital.”

  Eric knows better than to respond. He has learned when silence is safer.

  The announcement continues, rules, timelines, warnings, but Eric hears only fragments. His thoughts spiral outward, racing ahead.

  Supplicant. The word tastes like rust.

  He has heard the stories. Everyone has. How the Supplicant Year separates the strong from the expendable. How some are chosen for service, others for labor, and a few, very few, for something more. How the Kingstone grants classes at the capital, measured and modest, controlled.

  Uncommon, at best.

  His father once said the system was fair. His mother never answered when Eric asked if that was true.

  The wind howls harder, tearing at banners, driving sleet into faces. A woman cries out as she slips and falls. No one from the wagons moves to help. Two villagers rush forward instead, hauling her up by the arms.

  Eric’s hands curl into fists.

  This is how it begins, he thinks. Not with ceremony. With cold. With distance. With knowing exactly where you stand.

  The king’s man raises a gloved hand, and the bell rings once more.

  “Disperse,” he commands. “Supplicants will be summoned in due time.”

  The wagons turn first.

  Horses strain, hooves finding the planks laid for them. Wheels roll smooth and clean as the procession pulls away toward the southern road, banners snapping proudly in the wind.

  Eric watches them go until the last flash of blue disappears into the sleet.

  Around him, the village exhales in misery and motion. People scatter toward what shelter they can find. Fires are lit. Doors slam. The day long festival is over.

  His mother touches his shoulder. “Come on,” she says softly. “Before it gets worse.”

  Eric nods, though he knows it already has.

  As they walk home through the storm, snow and rain soaking through his clothes, Eric looks back once more at the churned green, at the deep ruts left by royal wheels.

  The Supplicant Year has begun.

  And he is already standing in its shadow.