"Nanxin Village, Bart Xialing!"
"West River Village, 'Red-faced' Philpot!"
…
Vashka pulled out small slips of paper with names written on them from the iron pot and handed them to the nearby Panveche.
The old house steward loudly read the text on the slip while registering the names in the ledger.
One by one, names echoed across the town square; the farmers whose names were called had ashen faces while those who didn't hear their own silently rejoiced at having dodged a bullet.
The pile of slips by Panveche's right hand grew, and soon the forty-eight slots would be filled.
Some people in the town square were counting aloud, and the count had reached forty-seven.
Everyone watched tensely as Vashka drew the last piece of paper from the pot; many believers prayed silently.
They prayed not to hear their own or a family member's name next.
Panveche took the final slip from Vashka's hand and hesitated.
"Hurry up and read it!" someone from the square couldn't help but urge.