I can feel my own pulse in my throat.
Oshara rises with the bowl in her hands.
That is the custom, then. The First Mother for the king. The whole horde knows it. The whole horde expects it. I know it now too, and for one foolish heartbeat, I wish I had never learned it at all.
Kaiven turns.
Not toward Oshara.
Toward me.
The whole camp seems to stop breathing at once.
I do not move because for one absurd second I truly think he must be looking past me. At someone behind me. Another woman. Someone who belongs more naturally in this moment than I do.
He says my name.
That ends the possibility of mistake.
“Keandra.”
The sound carries across the circle.
Every eye shifts to me.
I go cold and hot at the same time.
Oshara is still standing with the bowl in her hands. The younger women near me have gone so still they might be carved from the same stone as the fire ring. Even the warriors are watching openly now.
Kaiven takes one step closer, then another, closing the distance until the space between us feels charged enough to hum.
“Come,” he says.
I rise because there is no world in which I can remain seated now, not with the king of this horde standing in front of everyone and choosing me with his full attention.
My legs do not feel steady, but I make them carry me anyway. As I step into the center of the circle, Oshara’s gaze lands on me, unreadable and sharp as ever. I stop before Kaiven. The paint bowl is offered. Not to Oshara. To me. For one terrible second, I can only stare at it.
The dark pigment gleams in the light. Thick. Serious. Important enough that my hands suddenly feel clumsy and wrong.
“I don’t know how,” I say quietly.
Kaiven’s eyes never leave mine. “I will tell you.”
The words do not ease the pressure.
They make it worse.
Because now there is no pretending this is symbolic but shallow. He is not making a grand gesture just to make one. He is putting me into the custom itself. Into Oshara’s place. Into something every person standing here already understands.
A king does not lightly choose who prepares him for the hunt.
I take the bowl.
It is heavier than I expected.
My fingers tremble once before I get them under control. The camp sees that too, I am sure of it. Sees my uncertainty. Sees my inexperience. Sees the king waiting on my hands anyway.
Kaiven lowers himself slightly, not enough to kneel, just enough to bring his face within easier reach. The movement alone sends another ripple through the watching horde. A king makes himself easier for his wife to reach. Not forcing her to stretch awkwardly upward in front of everyone. Not making her look smaller than she already is.
