Watching her spin now, arms raised, crimson fabric swirling, I want to grab her, hold her, hide her away. But the fire is already watching. I stay at the edge of the crowd, hidden in the shadows.
Then the music fades, and the high priestess of the temple of Drakonis emerges, draped in robes the color of dusk, her obsidian mask glinting in the firelight.
“As has been tradition for six hundred years,” she intones, “today, we offer twelve daughters who have reached their eighteenth year to the Crimson Flame, in hopes that peace and prosperity might continue to reign throughout our land.”
The sacred ring is already drawn in salt and ash, circled by pillars of flame. The apprentices chant. Scrolls of all the names of eligible maidens in Solmere are tossed into the ceremonial fire.
The Oracle, a tall, gangly woman dressed in a plain red cloak, approaches the flame. She takes her place next to the high priestess, eyes closed. With a burst of light, the fire spits out a curled scroll, smoke trailing in its wake. She catches it and unrolls the parchment.
“Awnya Surel,” she reads.
Drums pound. A woman screams in joy and collapses to her knees. A man—presumably her husband—joins her, and together they chant praises to the gods, voicing their gratitude as guards step forward to escort their daughter away.
They rise quickly, eyes full of tears, and kiss both her cheeks. It makes me sick. I watch as the first Bloodmoon bride is led to the stage, where the Oracle embraces her.
“We thank you for your sacrifice.” The Oracle says as she slices the girl’s palm withAzariel, the sacred blade. As the blade kisses her skin, I can’t help but think of all the hands that have bled to Azrael before hers—how many hopeful futures met their end on this same edge.
“We thank you for your sacrifice,” the crowd repeats in unison, bowing. I do not join them.
They tell us not to form attachments. Courtship is forbidden until you survive your years of eligibility—until your name is no longer cast into the fire. As if love listens. As if youth waits.
There are only three ways to be disqualified. You can defile yourself with a man and be caught, declared impure, and surrendered to the temples for a minimum of one year of atonement—or worse, made a priestess of the Pink Rose. You can be rich enough to ensure your name is never thrown into the flames at all. Or you can insult the gods and be declared unworthy of their blessing; that was my fate.
Every other girl must endure the ritual. Once if you’re born in an odd year. Twice if you’re born in an even one, like me.
The cycle continues. Some girls walk willingly. Others have to be dragged. One man lunges through the line of guards, screaming, before they seize him. Tears fall. Hands reach.
The hope of a future love shatters.
I recognize some of them. Taryn, the baker’s daughter, who sometimes brought us leftover loaves after our mother died.Holly, whose own sister was forced to serve in the temple.
My hands shake.
“How many is that?” someone whispers nearby.
“Nine,” another murmurs.
The tenth… then the eleventh. A blur of names and faces. I brace myself, but my stomach churns. Each name feels like a drumbeat echoing through my ribs.
Not Kat. Not Kat. Not Kat.
I focus on my breath, counting it like I’m soothing a wild colt, but there’s no calming this storm.
The fire has its own will. It doesn’t care how kind you are, how many mouths you feed, or how many mornings you wake beforedawn to keep your family together. It burns who it pleases, and it never gives back what it takes.
The pyre flares. The twelfth scroll burns gold and red. The roiling smoke deepens, and a gust rattles the banners overhead.
My gut clenches.
We live outside the city. Surely our names are lower on the list. Surely this isn’t the year.
I close my eyes and picture Kat back in the stables, humming as she brushes Maximus, her braid a golden rope down her back.
Please,I beg.Not her. Not today.
The Oracle reaches up, catches the scroll, and squints at it. “Katherine Fairchild.”
My heart shatters. My knees buckle. But I don’t fall. I can’t.
