SIX #2
The attendant calls the first name: Lucian Carrera.
He strides forward, chest puffed, displaying the confidence of someone who’s never doubted his place in the world.
His family probably bought the first spot in line to prove his importance.
At the well, he picks up the ceremonial dagger and pricks his finger without hesitation.
A single drop of blood falls into the basin.
For a second, there is only the silence of held breath. Nothing happens. Almost like the Stars refuse to answer. Like the magic is stuck. A few whispers ripple through the audience, and even my chest threatens to cave in.
But then, silver light races through the channels in the floor, rushing along them like water finding its course.
Relieved gasps fill the room as above us, the stars of the hydra constellation brighten until they’re nearly blinding.
Lucian gasps and staggers back a step, like something hit him.
His hand flies to his wrist. I lean forward, holding my breath.
When he raises his wrist, his mark shimmers there—the hydra in miniature, etched into his flesh in lines of glowing light. The magic is still new, still settling, but as we watch, it fades into a silvery scar that marks him as Order Velesont.
Applause erupts, and I nearly jump out of my skin, our audience forgotten in the presence of true magic. Lucian grins, rejoining our line with even more swagger than before.
They continue calling names. Each ritual follows the same pattern—blood, light, constellation, varying degrees of wincing followed by a mark—but the locations vary.
The Stars mark a girl named Ellena on the back of her neck, the brand hidden beneath her hair until she lifts it to show everyone the lines of a chalice.
The first initiate from the Petition gets his on his palm, the lioness symbol roaring silently every time he flexes his hand.
The sole initiate of Order Marius receives hers on her upper thigh.
One of the knights whistles loudly as everyone claps.
I can’t resist peeking over at Bishop to see what he makes of that, but he’s staring sullenly ahead like just being here is a chore.
By the seventh initiate, my earlier awe has worn off.
By the tenth, I’m actively fighting back yawns.
The mystical ceremony becomes routine. Even the gasps from the audience grow more perfunctory.
Several of the elderly nobles have dozed off, chins dropping to chests and mouths hanging open.
I count the remaining initiates—five, four …
Looks like I’m being left for last. What a surprise.
My feet throb. The straps of my gown chafe against my skin. I’m fantasizing about ripping it off when the attendant calls, “Arden Icaros.”
Murmurs run through the crowd, the audience instantly interested in the pomp and circumstance again. I can’t bring myself to look at Broderic to see if he notices. Not with hundreds of eyes watching me so sharply that it’s like knives stabbing me in the back.
A heavy weight settles across my shoulders as I take the first step toward the well and nearly stumble because of my pain-numbed feet.
I catch myself, but the heel of my shoe hits the stone sharply, and I cringe as the sound echoes through the chamber.
I can’t mess this up. It’s only a drop of blood, a light show, a mark on my skin somewhere, and then I can take off these damned shoes forever.
The ceremonial dagger waits on the fat rim of the basin.
Dried blood speckles the blade from the other initiates.
No one wanted to ruin their fancy clothes by wiping it off.
I pick it up, its weight familiar in my sweating palm.
The hilt is warm from all the hands that have held it tonight.
Using the same knife is symbolic for the others—proof of the sacrifice they made.
For me, it’s a pointed reminder. Then again, how many ceremonial daggers do they have lying around?
I prick my finger with the tip of the blade. It’s quick and sharp, and I barely register the sting. I’ve had worse injuries from thorns. A perfect red pearl beads on my fingertip. One drop of blood in exchange for a lifetime of power. It hardly seems fair. But I hold my hand over the well.
The drop falls.
And nothing happens.
My heart pounds in my chest. Did I really fuck up that badly last night?
I did what needed to be done. There was no reason to kill the oscen. The vesper told me it wasn’t a test. My hands shake as I set the knife back onto the edge of the well.
Why aren’t the Stars binding me? The audience begins to whisper, breaking the uncomfortable silence and filling it with something much worse. Everyone else received their Kindling. I’ll be the only one who doesn’t.
And they all know why.
Dread pools in the pit of my stomach as my eyes dart around the room. Until they snag on Bishop. His posture still screams boredom, but his gaze drills into mine.
I square my shoulders, refusing to turn away like I did something wrong. Fuck him. Fuck all of them.
If killing an innocent creature without purpose is the only way to earn the privilege of magic, I don’t deserve it.
None of them do.
Bishop leans forward, eyes narrowing slightly. Probably debating throwing me out of the palace. If the Stars rejected me …
The ground begins to tremble beneath my feet, and I gasp.
I grab the basin’s rim as the floor actually shakes, like something deep below has awakened. All of a sudden, there’s movement in the corner of my eye. Murmurs ripple among the audience as the silver light races through every etched channel like the magic can’t decide which path to choose.
Pain slices along my skin so sharp and sudden, I almost pass out. A scream claws its way up my throat, but I clamp my mouth shut. If this is the Stars’ punishment, I won’t give them the satisfaction of hearing me break.
Instead, I cling to the basin, eyes flying around the room so quickly that everything is a blur until I look up at the night sky, searching for my own constellation.
For the stars that mark the tips of its wings, the ones that make up the line of its body.
But the pegasus of Order Icaros doesn’t flare with recognition.
Please.
The twinkling starlight dims, and relief floods through me. But before I can pry my fingers from the well, the sky goes black. Like every star is rejecting me at once.
I close my eyes, hoping that I might open them and find myself in bed. That this is just a nightmare brought on by nerves and too much wine.
“Look!” someone shouts, and my eyes snap open again to find a single star blazing overhead … in the center of the Night’s Scar.
Wrong. This is all wrong. Beneath me, the silver light diverges from the normal channels toward the unthinkable.
Mortar cracks in the floor as it carves its way into the lines of the fallen constellation.
I step back, instinct telling me to run, but white-hot agony erupts across my chest. Not on my wrist or palm or neck like the others.
My hands fly out, lifted by some unseen force as red light sears the skin over my heart, burning lines like fire.
There’s no way to stop it. I can only watch as a new pattern forms.
One I’ve only seen in a blackened alcove, cracked into the mortar under my feet, illustrated on the cover of a banned book in a shop. One in the shape of a bird—the fallen constellation that disappeared five hundred years ago. The one that only exists as a warning.
Except it’s burning itself into my skin right now.
A hush falls over the room, the kind of silence that hits before a storm.
And then a single word rips through the air. “Harbinger!”