You know you must go. The oath demands it, and you'd hardly wish to anger the gods. The defiant part of you screams against it, fighting for life. Soldiers surround you and drag you into the cart. You are no better than livestock at this point, save for the fact that you will die a nobler death than the average sheep. Something is stirred in the air. Are you too late? Has it come early this year? It seems so. Perhaps they will need another. You smile at this prospect, that you might not be the only one this time.
You're at the palace now and although this would be any peasant's dream under any other circumstance, you feel the gravity of your future, or lack thereof, swallow you whole as you are pulled through the grand archways leading inside. The wheels of your small cart are loudly rolling across the stone floors, marking your fate with every revolution of the wooden axles.
"Your accomodations for the night," says one of the men, pointing towards a wooden door. Another pushes it open and forces you inside. I should get a good night's sleep, you think, but the pile of scrap wood and a small woven blanket won't do much for you. You sigh and close your eyes. It'll all be over soon, so why try to fight it?