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Iryana shook her head at him but smiled at the nickname. It felt good.

“It’s almost time,” Levek told them.

She swallowed, nerves flying up her limbs like ants.

“Let’s get your armor on.” Hadima pulled Iryana to her feet. “We’ll help you.”

Iryana’s legs felt like noodles as she walked into the hall, the helmet clutched at her side.

The moonless night had just begun, the time when the dakii were least active, the wall temporarily manned only by volunteers. Her entire clan was in that room, lit by the glow of lanterns and the flames in the fireplace.

Her grandmother, First of the clan, stood at the front of the hall. She wore armor like Iryana’s, but the helmet on her head bore a single spear rising from the front. Despite her age, she stood tall and unyielding.

Iryana crossed the room, the click of her low-heeled boots against the wood echoing loudly. Her stomach churned, her magic roiling. Every step felt like trudging through deep mud, but she forced herself to keep going. She stopped in front of the First.

Fake it until you believe it yourself.

“You were always meant to be an heir,” the First said softly, only loud enough for Iryana to hear. Her hand rose to press over her heart. “Gornhal agreed, always wanted you back in the fold.”

A breath whooshed out of her at the mention of the dead Second.

She was afraid to look at the others, afraid that if she saw any doubt on the faces of her clan, she wouldn’t be able to go through with it. Iryana kept her eyes locked on the First, handing over the helmet to Vesima’s waiting hands and dropping to her knees.

The First’s gaze softened into that of a grandmother’s. “I will never be able to make up for what you suffered. For leaving you to face what you did. I hope you will be a better clan leader than me, see a better way.”

Iryana couldn’t find the words to offer forgiveness or tell her grandmother that she had done the best she could, or that Iryana couldn’t possibly hope to do better. Iryana could only offer a tense nod and hope her grandmother understood it was all in her heart, anyway.

Her grandmother smiled at Iryana, and then her face hardened back into that of the First.

“Like all guardians of this clan, you have given your oaths to follow our ways. To answer the call of the crown of Istri, but only if it doesn’t come at the cost of the clan. To dedicate yourself to your clan, but only if it doesn’t come at the cost of those we protect. Our duty is to our people, and then to our clan, and then to the crown, and only after all that, do we allow duty to ourselves.”

The First nodded at Iryana, offering a slight smile.

“To be heir, to lead a generation, is not just to honor those oaths yourself, but to lead the clan in honoring them together. To stand strong and firm against any enemy. Not just to fight, but to protect and care. To be the spine that holds the clan up, as unbending and unbreaking as any metal-forging.”

It had been weeks since Iryana had last formed her forgings, but at that signal, she reached inside and wrestled with the magic, forcing her spear into her palm. The dark purple magic almost seemed to glow. Pain shot through her, nausea and discomfort roiling, but Iryana ignored it.

“You are heir of the third living generation of the Kleesold Clan. But with no second, upon my death, you will rise to First. Lead our clan into a better future.”

The First raised the three-speared helmet in front of her in offering.

“To accept this helm is to accept this duty, which can never be forsaken. To belong to this clan for the rest of your days. Until the air has left your body. Until the purifying water has been poured over you. Until the cut has been made at your neck to sever your soul from the confines of the body. Until your soul bursts into the flame of death, rising up like smoke. Until your mortal body once more returns to the dirt.”

Iryana swallowed, her throat tight. But she rose from her knees, hands steady as they took the helmet from her grandmother. She faced her clan, head held high, as she placed the helmet onto her head.

“Iryana Kleesolda, Third of our clan!” the First declared with an exuberant cry.

“Third! Third! Third!” her family chanted.

Her knees felt weak, her breaths shaky, but she had done it. She was Third.

One by one, all the members of her generation approached, dropped to their knees and placed their foreheads to the wooden floor in front of her.

Tonhald smiled warmly at her. Kladara winked. Edvar wagged his brows to make her laugh. Levek gave her a look of trust and expectation. Hadima whispered, “I love you.” The distant, unforged cousins smiled at her with excitement. Misha came last.

Her hazel eyes met Iryana’s, and where Iryana had expected to find distrust and anger, she found something else entirely. Misha’s eyes were wide and confused, as if her feelings were too conflicted to settle. Iryana watched as Misha kneeled and lowered her head to the ground. Then, as Misha stood, once more meeting Iryana’s gaze, there seemed to be the slightest hint of pride in the burning amber of her stare, though Misha quickly hid it.

She would take it.