They incline their heads to me.
I return the gesture.
When all are seated, I grab Arianette’s hand and hold her in place by my side.
“Stand with me,” I say quietly.
She nods, shoulders squaring a little.
“While the world around us gives thanks for the bounty in their lives,” I say, voice carrying without effort across the long table, “we gather for another reason. We’re uniquely attuned to the ways of nature. To the cycles of the moon and sun, the seasons as they unfold around us, from the bloom of birth to the decay that follows. We give our thanks with each and every body we receive and submit to its final resting place.”
I pause long enough to study the faces of my Shadows, boys who walked into this house wide-eyed and hungry, and emerged as men.
“Tonight is not about conquest or command,” I continue. “It is about acknowledgement. About honoring your sacrifice. Your loyalty to Beta Rho Nu. To the House of Night. To your brotherhood and to your King.”
A low chorus answers me, murmurs of assent, fists striking wood in steady rhythm, heads bowing. Someone starts a slow clap that catches like fire, spreading down the table. Slade pounds Jace on theback hard enough to jolt him forward; Jace laughs and shoves him back. Mateo lifts his horn in salute to Carson across the table, who grins and returns it. DK leans over to Hunter, muttering something that makes the normally reserved Baron bark a short laugh and slap the table.
The energy rises, cheers, whistles, brothers calling out names, slapping shoulders, pulling each other into quick, rough embraces. Pride swells in my chest watching them; these are my men, young and fierce. “Your representation for Beta Rho goes far beyond your service to the House of Night. You’re excelling in the classroom and on the field.” I nod at the boys mid-table, their bodies primed from lacrosse. “You give and take beatings every week at the Fury–”
“Matty’s kicking ass tomorrow night!” someone shouts, and a hand roughly rubs Mateo’s head.
I raise a hand, and the room quiets almost instantly, the last echoes of laughter fading into attentive silence.
“The Barons do not endure because of one man,” I continue when the room quiets. “We exist because of many. Because of those who carry the weight without recognition. Because of those who stand in shadow so the House may stand at all.”
Then, I turn toward Arianette.
“This rite was planned and executed by the Baroness.”
A ripple moves through the room.
“She did not do it for praise,” I continue, taking in her wide eyes and long lashes. “She did it because she understands what it means to hold others steady.”
She nods, a small smile lifting those plump lips, and accepts the recognition.
Per tradition, Beta Rho alumni, cloaked in robes and masks, enter the room, carrying shallow iron trays down the length of the table. Each tray holds a neat row of pins, simple, unadorned iron, cool and dark, each one etched with the sigil of the Shadows. No jewels. No flourish. These are not rewards. They are markers of responsibility. Of burden accepted.
One by one, the men rise as their names are called.
The newest members go first, the recent pledges. They step forward stiff-backed, with their hands clenched at their sides. They are no longer boys, but not yet fully settled into their weight. I watch as each of them removes the thin freshman pin they’ve worn since recruitment, the mark of probation and learning, and places it into the waiting bowl at the center of the table. The sound is unmistakable, metal against metal, a soft clink that echoes louder than it should.
Their pledge pins are gone now. Cast back into the House to be claimed by next year’s recruits. In its place, I press the Shadow pin into their palms. When they close their fists around it, something changes, although it’s not visible. They’re aware that they are no longer being tested, that they belong.
The sophomores come next. Their pins are heavier, etched deeper, marked with an additional line that signifies continuity, men who have endured, who stayed when walking away would have been easier. They bow their heads briefly as the pin is affixed, acknowledging not elevation, but expectation.
Third years’ tokens are darker still, the iron treated and burnished, a subtle mark of authority. These men are no longer learning the rules… they enforce them. I meet their eyes as each one steps forward, weighing them as much as they weigh themselves.
Mateo rises among them, long dark hair tied back at his nape, expression steady. He has carried more than most, and it shows, not in weakness, but in restraint. One of the first to volunteer, whether it’s in the ring against the Dukes or at the collection of a body. When his pin is placed, it rests over his heart. He doesn’t look down at it. He doesn’t need to.
Carson comes next, pale skin and an intense gaze. His role has always been quiet, essential. The kind of man who notices what others miss. His pin marks him as such, the iron etched with a subtle variation known only within these walls.
Then the room stills.
Liam and Billy step forward, and their presence alone tightens the air. Former Barons that worked closely by my side.
From Liam’s hands comes the final set of tokens, not pins, but rings.
These are not placed lightly.
