As they stepped inside the Atrium, the sounds of the crowds finally died down a little, as the doors were shut behind them and their armoured guard. Anya let out the breath she had been holding, sneaking a glance behind through the glass doors at the crowds. People still pushed and shoved toward the carpet, despite the departure of her and her mother.

“Anya,” her mother called, having reached the elevator.

The princess took a few hurried steps, joining her mother in the machine. It was ornate as pressure elevators went, covered with brass embellishments that ended and began in swirls of colour. The doors slid closed, and the small group was sent shooting upwards into the view box.

As much as she disliked the ceremony, even Anya couldn’t deny the beauty of it all. Beneath, crowded around the centre podium were thousands of Londoners. Lining the stands circling the area were people of all walks of life, from nobles to common folk, all watching the festivities with awe. Performers spat fire and performed illusions for the entertainment of those watching as the crowd waited for the main event to begin. Sat in a corner of the podium was Antonie Van De Vliert, Imperial Communications Manager, his wrinkled, kindly face glistening with the evening heat of London. As they stepped from the elevator and into the view box, he gave a little wave to Anya. She returned it to him, her face breaking into a wide grin at the gesture.

The Empress and her Heir took their seats above the masses, in elegant thrones gilded in gold and silver, and watched the acts beneath them.

After a brief rest, Maria stepped forward toward the mounted microphone. She stood still for a moment, looking out over the crowd- Anya could see the gentle smile on her mother’s face. It was genuine, not at all forced. As the final acts came to a close, the Empress leaned in close, beginning to make her speech.

“People of London!” She cried out, spreading her hands wide. The chattering from below died down almost immediately, and all eyes were focused on the small view box. The Empress’s smile widened, and she continued, “I welcome you all to our bi-annual raffle!” she declared, pausing for a moment to allow the applause that followed her words. The crowd fell silent, and she continued, “Our brave candidates have submitted their names in what will be our 21st raffle.

“As I am sure many of you are aware, there is only a slim chance that whoever is picked return, alive or dead. We wish them luck on their journey, we pray for their well-being. These noble individuals have stepped up to the task, and we owe them a great debt, as bravery is what built London!” She paused again, letting her words sink in. “Where would we be without the bravery of our ancestors? Those who came and built our wonderful, thriving city! You who embark on this journey will join the few memorialised forever in the Halls of Remembrance, your name immortalised in stone beside those of past heroes. And, should you be successful, you shall be remembered as the one to bring peace to the city; to the Empire!” She bowed her head, retreating from the microphone and returning to her seat beside Anya. The young heir glanced at her mother with a mixture of awe and concern.

The Empress looked ahead with a resolute air about her, proud in her manner. She was a master at hiding her own feelings, disguising them from the world. Anya, however, could tell. There was a hint of sadness in her eyes, a tinge of regret in the way she clasped her hands. She did not understand how her mother could do this, how she could send one lone individual out on a suicide mission.

Anya shifted uncomfortably in her seat, receiving a disapproving glare from one of the maids that had accompanied them, before she became still. She returned her gaze to the bright lights beneath them, and looked beyond the walls of the Atrium. The Thames stretched out lazily into the distance, twisting and turning like a great serpent, while the street lights that surrounded it were like stars in an otherwise murky sky. It was beautiful.

On stage, Antonie had stood, walking to the centre of the platform. He was wringing his hands, looking over the documents on the podium before him.

“Good luck,” Anya whispered as the crowd moved once more into silence.

“As you have heard from our great Empress, Maria Vasquez, the matter of the raffle is hardly a laughing matter. Your mission is to retrieve the Arcane Rune, which, as you all know, was stolen from us by the then Senior Inventor, Kole Tasker.” A ripple of disapproving remarks washed through the crowd like waves at the mention of the man’s name- one that had become taboo in the streets. The name of the man who had rendered London defenceless. Antonie raised his hand for silence once more, before he returned to his speech. “Anyone who’s name is chosen, shall be exiled from London until he or she returns with the Rune, or until said candidate dies. In the case of death, and the body is found, the individual will be returned to their home to receive a proper funeral.

“Do you understand the terms, candidates?” A small portion of the crowd yelled out their agreements, their oaths. Anya noted the dwindling size of that particular section of the crowd. Each raffle it got smaller and smaller- it wouldn’t be long until there were none left. She returned her attention to Antonie, who had stepped toward a long glass tube that had emerged from a section of the stage. After a few moments of silence, there was a loud clanking sound. All in the Atrium held their breath, listening silently to the sound of mechanics working. Cogs whirled, pistons moved. Anya watched with fascination as various vents opened to allow steam past.

A minute or so after the noise had started, a secondary tube started to rise from the first. At its tip was a small slip of paper- just big enough to hold the name written upon it- clutched in a small, hand-like claw.

Antonie retrieved the paper, straightening a little as he took it. He held it before him, reading the name. The man stood completely still, as though frozen in time. Quiet whispers scattered through the crowd, before he seemed to unfreeze. In a pained, croaking voice, he finally spoke.

“Ariannya Vasquez.”