I glance at Kallus. His jaw is set. Crimson eyes locked on our daughter with all the ferocity of a storm. He nods once.
“We do.”
“Then rise,” the High Bone-Singer intones.
Kallus helps Chelsea from his arms and kneels with me. The child — her hair braided with tiny bone beads — steps forward. Her bare feet sink into the sand and crushed stone of the Ring, and I swear I can feel a ripple in the air, like the world is breathing in with her.
“Child of bone and blood,” the Bone-Singer says, lifting his ceremonial staff tipped with carved antlers. “Before the clans of Tyrannus, before the bones of our ancestors, we name you. Speak your truth, Fire-born.”
Chelsea doesn’t seem nervous. Not at all. Her head lifts, eyes glowing in the fading light. She looks between us, then to the Bone-Singer, then out into the crowd — as though she can feel every pair of eyes upon her small frame.
“It hurts sometimes,” she says plainly, voice small but clear. “And it roars in my bones. But I will stand. I will protect what is mine. And I will sing with the stars.”
A murmur — like wind through trees — sweeps through the Bone Ring. Some Reapers nod. Others widen their eyes with awe.
The High Bone-Singer smiles thinly, then touches his staff to her shoulder.
“In the tongue of our forebears,” he says, “I name you Zhar’kana — Bloodsinger. You carry fire in your marrow andsong on your breath. Live long and shake the stars with your voice.”
The crowd explodes — not with noise, but with something deeper: reverence, approval, belonging. A low rolling chant rises and spreads like wildfire, voices repeating her name:
Zhar’kana!
Zhar’kana!
Zhar’kana!
Kallus’s breath hits my ear in a warm rush.
“Bloodsinger,” he murmurs, pride so deep it throbs like a war drum.
“I knew it,” I whisper back. “From the moment I held her.”
Chelsea beams, cheeks flushed with triumph, and for the first time —for the first time— I see her not as the little girl who was hidden away and hunted, but as the heir she was always meant to be: fierce, unbroken, unmatched.
The Bone Ring lowers its chant into a soft harmony. The elders step forward, one by one, laying hands upon her head — ritual blessings whispered in the old tongue, words of steel and flame and promise.
I feel something warm trickle down — not sweat, not blood, but tears — unbidden and welcome. I reach for Kallus’s hand, squeezing it so hard it hurts.
“She is ours,” I whisper, voice thick.
“No,” he replies, eyes shining. “She ishers.”
And he’s right.
When the rites are done, the crowd begins to disperse — not in silence, but in purpose. Some approach us with gifts: woven bands of bone and iron, blades forged by fire, songs hummed into existence just for her.
One elder — stooped, covered in scars and stories — kneels before Chelsea and sets a carved bone circlet upon her brow.
“For the Bloodsinger,” he says, voice gravel and gold. “May your voice be thunder. May your song be unending.”
Chelsea touches the circlet and smiles — small, shy, but radiant.
I crouch beside her. “You wear this well,” I murmur.
“Better than you,” she retorts with a grin so sudden and bright I almost laugh aloud.
I turn to Kallus. “Do you remember her first steps?”
