ONE #3
Constellations are carved into the recessed walls, their dots and intersecting lines painted with gold leaf.
One each for the original patron orders of Antares: Velesont’s many-headed hydra, the gentle lioness of Leontia, Calix’s overflowing chalice, the horned wolf of Marius, and my own order’s pegasus.
As we pass a blackened sixth alcove, I avert my eyes. So does the vesper.
The corridor ends with a staircase that spirals up, floor after floor stacking in tiers on top of one another toward the heavens.
We pass doors on each level inlaid with gold and jewels that connect in patterns more complicated than any I’ve ever seen. Each is more intricate than the last until we reach the top. The final door is a slab of stone, unadorned save for a simple knob.
There’s nowhere else for us to go, but she doesn’t open it. Instead, she reaches into her robe, and my breath snags. The first initiate looked devastated when he came back. Now it’s my turn to be traumatized.
And to think I begged my brother to send word that I was sick, so we could skip all of this.
But she only withdraws a small bottle filled with a thick, milky substance that lingers on the sky-blue glass. Smiling at my confusion, she uncorks the lid. “The crown’s observatory is a sacred place,” she explains, dipping a finger into the oil. “Bow.”
I squat into a graceless curtsy, too nervous to do it properly as my eyes drop to the floor.
She draws a line across my forehead, then another that bisects, then another, and another.
The oil warms on my skin as she murmurs in the strange, melodic language I’ve only heard a handful of times before.
During weddings and other rituals. When our local vespers bless the fields before seeding. At my father’s funeral.
“It’s a great honor to enter this chamber,” she says, stepping away. “Only those willing to dedicate their lives to the safeguarding of magic should do so.”
Straightening, I nod. Rites and ceremonies have never been very important to me.
Working the land requires practical magic, not ancient superstition.
But even in Damalis, there are plenty who believe the Stars expect our devotion and that they’ll punish those who neglect to show it.
It’s why every year we perform a fertility ritual in the fields before any magic is done.
It’s also why no one says anything if the crops fail anyway.
However, since I’m here as a guest of the king, I can’t risk offending anyone in the royal city. Not if Broderic is going to secure a wealthy wife and, along with her, our family’s estate.
The vesper slips the bottle back into her robes. But when her hand reappears, it’s not empty.
My stomach sinks as I stare at the slender dagger.
She holds it out, and I fumble taking it.
There are stars and lines engraved on the silver blade.
Its gold hilt is studded with sapphires and diamonds, all connected by more etchings.
It’s utterly ridiculous, but the dagger is light, almost dainty, and it fits in my palm like it was made especially for me.
I turn it over like I’ll find instructions written on the other side.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask, still studying it while I process what’s happening.
I’m standing in the Royal Astrolatory.
Where a less-than-talkative semi-priestess anointed me.
And she just handed me a knife.
The pit in my stomach grows.
“Do what needs to be done,” she murmurs.
I think of the initiate wiping his clean hands. Of what little information my brother gave me about tonight. But it’s the haunted sadness in her eyes—the same look that my father got during the seasonal slaughter—that tells me exactly what needs to be done.
Fuck this.
And fuck my brother for acting like this was a simple rite of passage.
A girl should be warned when knives are going to be involved in the evening’s activities.
The vesper gestures to the door in front of us but doesn’t reach for its knob.
I’m being tested.
I have to open it this time. I have to walk inside.
Or I could turn around. She can’t stop me. Not while I’m the one holding the knife.
“I’m not …” I swallow back the words.
She places a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me forward. “Remember who you are, Arden Icaros.” She emphasizes my family name like I did outside the astrolatory—as if I need to be reminded. “Then do what needs to be done.”
You’re an Icaros. Act like it.
I clutch the dagger, Broderic’s words nudging me toward the door.
No wonder that initiate nearly ran from the astrolatory. Raised to heal his entire life, then given a dagger at the door. Order Leontia has always felt the most like ours.
Until today.
Today, I see the difference between us. He probably didn’t know why she gave him this knife.
I do. But something sour pools in my stomach.
It clenches and twists as I touch the door.
The heavy slab swings open with a hiss and a rush of cold air.
I don’t dare look back to see if the vesper follows me inside.
I don’t turn when the door closes with a soft but ominous thud.
After the gold-flecked marble and extravagance of the rest of the building, the observatory is depressingly sparse, though the circular stone room with its flaming torches feels more like my home astrolatory.
Damp air prickles my nose, the scent of musty stone and faded incense mingling with something metallic that sticks in the back of my throat.
I know that tang, but there isn’t a speck of blood to be found.
I choke back a cough rather than break the heavy silence.
Centuries of rituals have worn the limestone floor smooth against my bare feet.
An icy breeze drifts toward me, catching my hair and raising goose bumps all over my body.
Looking up, I find endless night. There’s no ceiling above the circular chamber, not even glass, to separate this space from the Stars.
They’re so close that my fingers itch to reach up and pluck one from the sky.
But that’s not why I’m here.
I drop my gaze, my eyes adjusting to the dim firelight, and find an altar.
But it’s the tall man standing on the other side of the chamber who catches my attention.
Tightness laces my chest, constricting more with each breath I take.
He isn’t alone, but somehow, I only see him.
He doesn’t move or speak, but his presence is as demanding and damning as the sky above me.
He is a column of shadow against the dull stone in his black uniform. The only color in the room is the red cloak that falls from his broad shoulders to the straps of his thick-soled boots.
Only bishops, the highest-ranked officers of Order Marius, wear that color.
It’s a position so revered—so sacred in its duty—that many second-born nobles from their order train from the time they can walk in preparation to claim it.
Few manage, but when they do, they give up everything—marriage, children, even their own names as proof of their unwavering dedication to protecting the people of Antares—and become simply Bishop.
There are only a handful that carry this rank in Antares. Each travels the continent, maintaining the law with little oversight from anyone save the king and the high vesper.
When I was little, one came to Damalis, but it was so long ago that my recollection of her is more feeling than concrete memory. A pit in the stomach. A sense of being small and insignificant. A tugging alarm in the chest that’s impossible to ignore. All wrapped in scarlet.
This bishop’s hood is drawn, obscuring his face even more in the dim room.
I take a step in his direction like he holds some invisible thread that I can’t resist pulling.
He tilts his head, and the hood shifts just enough to see one corner of his mouth curve slightly, like he knows I’m walking toward him and no one else.
The movement breaks the spell. I stop, remembering that we’re not alone.
Two others flank him, dual weapons ready to strike. The silver embroidery on their uniforms marks them as knights, the highest rank someone without noble blood can achieve.
The first knight’s face is all sharp lines and brutal angles, like her skin was hewn from the black stone that makes up the Stygia Mountains.
And with the sword strapped to her back, she looks as beautiful and deadly as their uncrossable peaks.
The other knight is handsome despite the pale web of raised scars that mars one side of his tanned neck and continues to his cheekbone.
His eyes keep flicking to the door with a restless energy that suggests he can’t wait to get out there and add more damage to his otherwise perfect face.
“Pretend they’re not here,” the vesper says behind me, and I almost jump out of my own skin. I’d forgotten about her. “They will only observe your ritual.”
Observe. The single word crashes into me.
To my audience, I’m little more than a woman holding a knife pointed at the stars—and they’re waiting for me to use it.
I force my attention to the altar. It’s a simple stone plinth that is empty save for a black silk cloth draped over the shape of a bird’s cage.
The vesper walks over and tugs the cloth off of—yes, a golden cage.
And inside it: an offering to the Stars. A sacrifice to earn their favor. Proof I’ve left my old life behind.
That I’m worthy of their magic.
The black bird tries to stretch its wings, sidling on its perch as it searches for room that isn’t there.
It’s too large to be an ordinary raven. I take a single step, and it tilts its head, two beady black eyes zeroing in on me with unnerving curiosity.
There’s something almost human in the way it stares, and a chill races down my spine.
The cage’s moon-shaped clasp is studded with pearly stones, and the bars don’t curve into a bell. Instead, they intersect like a trellis.
Not an ordinary cage. Not an ordinary bird.
And it’s still watching me.