Calliope watches me, her eyes taking every inch of me in. As though, if she looks close enough, she’ll be able to penetrate past the layers of skin and tissue to where my heart and soul hide beneath. “I have seen it.”
Her words leave me perplexed, their meaning seemingly nonsensical. But as the silence lingers and her piercing gaze stays locked on mine, realization dawns—she isn’t speaking in a literal sense. The unsteady beat of my heart takes off in a flutter of frantic wings. “You’re an oracle?”
There hasn’t been an oracle in the Empyrieos since the God War—not one who has stepped forward, at least. During those days, the warring armies conscripted them and forced them to use their gift in the pursuit of victory. In the centuries that followed, it was unclear whether the Anemoi stripped the power of foresight from the realm, or if anyone who found themselves in possession of the gift had kept it hidden to avoid a life of military servitude.
As the memories fall into place, I see it clearly—Calliope is blessed with the sight. Or cursed, depending on how you look at it. So many things she’s said over the years hinted at events to come, though they always seemed like small, insignificant details. Never enough to be sure of anything. But now, as she shares a truth she’s kept close to her heart, I feel my doubt shatter like a storm breaking the stillness.
“Not quite.” She laughs, a rich, smoky sound. “At least, not in the way you’re thinking.”
“Why?” I ask, barely more than a whisper. A single word, holding so many questions I struggle to voice. Amid the cacophony of doubts, onerises above the rest: Why has she chosen to entrust me with her secret? And why now?
Calliope stands and glides toward her desk, pouring two cups of wine from the clay decanter waiting there. Silently, she walks back toward me and holds out a cup. I take it between numb fingers, and she retreats again, leaning against the wooden surface as she faces me with a contemplative look.
“Do you remember what you said to me when we first met?”
I shake my head as I bring the cup to my lips. The sweet wine spills over my tongue, but I barely register the taste.
“At just thirteen, with your curly hair and defiant expression, you stormed in, hands on your hips, and declared with unwavering conviction, ‘No one tells me how to behave.’ ”
I choke on my next sip of wine.
“I saw myself in you. In fact, I still do. Headstrong, willful, passionate.” Calliope looks down into her wine cup and lifts her shoulders with an elegant shrug. “I suppose you could say I’ve grown attached over the years.”
Warmth blooms in my chest, and I glance away to hide how it creeps across my cheeks, not sure how to respond to her confession.
“So, the reason I’m telling you this,” she continues, “is because I care. And because I care, I fear. I mostly see fleeting flashes and fragments in my mind. Impressions. However, a feeling always accompanies those impressions, and those are considerably more telling.”
“And what did you feel?” I ask, uncertain I want to know, but also knowing I need to.
“Nothing good, my sweet anemone. Nothing good.”
Dawn breaks on Naming Dayall too soon, the sun rising with unwelcome haste.
After last night, I tossed and turned in my bed, Calliope’s words a relentless echo in my mind. She has always had a way of getting under my skin, of knowing me better than I know myself. Like I am the very flower she calls me, and with a few simple words she could peel away my petals and see right into the pistil of my being. Only this time, her words left a heavy weight on my chest. One that has only grown as I prepared for the ceremony today and continues to press upon me now.
My cohort and I stand in lines of pairs before the ornate arched doors of the Aviary’s ceremonial hall, all six of us cloaked in the same white ceremonial garb. The instructions strictly dictated the order of our procession for the ceremony. I stand at the back, with Nyssa to my right. I can sense her throwing me furtive glances, but I keep my eyes straight ahead, glued to the intricate carvings etched into the wooden doors.
They swing open, a screeching groan of hinges shattering the silence. The sound scrapes its way up my spine, prickling my skin with unease. As our cohort moves, I draw in a deep breath, steeling myself as I step forward with them.
In all my years at the Aviary, this is my first time entering the ceremonial hall. Stone columns line the walls of the large square chamber, stretching up to a ceiling that has been transformed into an artfulcanvas, its paintings portraying the history of the Sorrows and the rise of our order. The history of a kingdom and its secrets on display, all captured by a masterful hand.
Several Owls stand along the far wall, dressed in white ceremonial robes like our own, their faces hidden beneath deep hoods. The last light of day shines through the arched windows of the western wall, setting dust motes alight and pooling in amber puddles on the polished marble floor. In the center of the hall is a circular dais, adorned with a golden pedestal in the shape of an eagle in flight. The eagle’s wings spread to support the weight of the ancient tome resting on its back.
The Book of Names.
The book holding the identities of every single person inducted into the order. Including mine, after today.
I tear my eyes away from the book and turn my attention to the man standing beside it.
The Eagle.
Lord Amon Malis is more than the ruler of the Aviary—he is my captor, the orchestrator of my torment. It was his gilded tongue that coaxed my father into handing me over to the Aviary, binding me with his manipulative words and oppressive authority. And he spent the years that followed cutting my metaphorical wings with calculated cruelty.
Breathe.
The reminder echoes through my mind, and I force air through my gritted teeth, fighting the urge to fist my hands as bitterness rises like bile in my throat.
His features are sharp like cut glass. Fathomless eyes the color of a soulless night sky, sleek black hair braided down the back of his golden robes that gleam against his sun-burnished skin. Those barren eyes flick toward me, and a shiver travels unbidden down my spine.
