Ashwyn of Skyr. Ashwyn of Skyr. Ashwyn of Skyr.

The words echo through my mind as, for the first time in my life, I experience the power of hearing my true name spoken by another. Of really realizing my true name. But the sensation pales in comparison to the overwhelming presence of the one who spoke it.

“Lhura.” The word breathes out of me like a blessing.

“I claim you, Ashwyn of Skyr. Open your spirit to me.”

My response is automatic, instinctive, ecstatic. I throw my arms wide and my head back—feeling an openness in my own energy, a gateway into the core of my consciousness. There’s a sound like the rushing of wind as the opalescent apparition surges through it, infusing me with her essence, her brilliance.

Glittering chaos whirls around me as the world realigns itself, and it’s as though every cell in my body is awash in light. A gentle warmth pulses across the surface of my skin. Then the most bizarre sensation of all rolls over. A feeling of recovery, of healing—as if from a horrible injury and a really bad cold—but of the spirit, rather than the body. The feeling settles in and fades somewhat, but lingers like a gentle buzz. Blinking and staring around me, I realize the hallucinations are gone. But there’s a glimmering sort of sharpness to everything now, as if it’d all been slightly out of focus before.

“Ashwyn?” Maljha’s now-familiar voice calls from outside the tent. “Is it done? May I come in?”

“Y-yes,” I falter. Even my voice sounds different, somehow. As if there’s more weight to it. More presence. As if I could whisper something and someone on the other side of the throneyard would hear my words.

The Crimson ducks into the tent, careful not to pull the tent-flap too wide. They stop short at the sight of me, their lips forming a silent “oh.” I stare at them, my mouth falling open.

My cousin is glowing, colors I can’t quite name emanating around them, colors I see more with my mind than my eyes, but as clearly as anything. And over their chest, a sigil glows. The Sign of Mhiras, The Wayfarer, Great Spirit of comets.

I blink, stare, then follow their gaze down to my own clavicle, where blooms the Sign of Lhura. But etched directly below it is a jumble of dark, jagged angles. I can finally see my mother’s brand, the sigil she poisoned me with. My stomach churns.

“Steady, cousin,” soothes Maljha, ducking down a bit as they approach me to peer into my eyes. “It’s a little overwhelming, I know.”

I blink again, swallow. “So…so each of us who goes through the Dedication…”

“Is chosen and marked by one of the Great Spirits, yes.”

A shiver crawls down my spine.

“But that’s…that’s supposed to be what happens when you die.”

Placing a comforting hand to my back, my cousin speaks in low, soothing tones. 

“It is, yes. But we are not dead. true death means passing into the Third Realm, the final realm. This is a place between. We bypass the normal order of life and death by coming here, but even in this realm our bodies can die. It’s important the Great Spirits mark us before that happens. It’s the only thing which makes us truly suited to exist here. And if they don’t mark us through the Dedication, and we die in this place…they won’t be able to claim us in the process. Unclaimed spirits dissipate, and are swallowed up by nothingness.”

It takes me a moment to absorb that, and as soon as I do, a recent memory surfaces. “Lore…Lore said something about Signs, in regard to Joining into a circle.” Which means she must have already known what the Dedication is, even though she wasn’t supposed to…and still chose not to share that information with me. Jerk.

Already Maljha is nodding. “Yes. No more than one of each Sign can Join together. Do you have any more questions at the moment? You can ask anything you want about the Dedication now that you’ve been through it, so long as it’s not in front of anyone who hasn’t.”

I shake my head, too overwhelmed to think of anything else, my mind a buzzing blank.

“Then let’s get you dressed,” says my cousin, lifting their arm to bring attention to the garment and wrappings draped over it. “I know we haven’t known each other that long, but I think you’re going to like this.”

Carefully, they lay the swathed fabrics out on the dappled leather rug between us, elegant hands setting to work as they unwrap it. A small gasp escapes me as the creation is unveiled, all thoughts of my mother’s horrible sigil dashed briefly away.

The dress is a shade of dark, iridescent storm gray that reminds me of my old nighthorn jacket, abandoned back at that fancy hotel. Which in turn reminds me of everything else I’ve been torn away from, everything and everyone else I love and miss so much that it hurts to think of them. The school. Mittens and Boon. Beatrice.

E.J.

Tears flood my eyes as Maljha pulls back to hug me about the shoulders, the dress unveiled in full.

Embroidered lightning in a silvery shade of lavender dances down the garment’s fitted bodice and spreads across the shoulders, tapering down to the sleeves. The skirt is full and flaring. Maljha begins to help me into it, and I gasp as a sudden glow fills the tent, the lightning patterns illuminating as the fabric touches my skin.

My cousin grins at my reaction, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Umbrasilk,” she explains. “It absorbs the faint, residual Umbra that leaks out of living things. Most people can’t wear it for longer than an hour without feeling drained, but you could dress in it all day every day if you wanted and probably never feel a thing.”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathe.

“Thank your father for that,” they say, offering my arm. “Are you ready to face the masses?”

Nodding and taking a deep breath, I curl my arm through the hook of theirs and nod.

The courtyard erupts in whooping and applause as we step out of the tent. My father awaits at the other side, the rest of his Circle, Leon, and Commander Jhao with him. 

As my family crowds around to embrace me, my mind reels with the onslaught of new sights and information. Glowing, nameless colors mixing together and sigil Signs emblazoned across souls. My father is a Zhadra. Jhao, unsurprisingly, is marked by Rhajna, the Strategist. Spirit of Winds.

After a lot of hugging and congratulations, Ariko—a Betra, apparently—steps away to re-enter the tent, and it’s Lore’s turn to undergo the dedication. She approaches with her chin raised, curious gaze flicking toward me more than once. Perhaps trying to work out my Sign. Dressed in a thin gray robe as I’d been, she’s got another garment draped over her chair arm to change into afterwards.

She disappears into the tent, and a few moments later Ariko emerges. Not long after, so does Lore—her soul glowing darkly, marked by the Sign of Domedra, the Keeper. Spirit of the Void. Like me, it seems she chose her Otherside role well.

The moment she lays eyes on me, her teeth bare in a grin.

“So, you’re truly a Lhura after all.” Her hands work at the wheels of her chair as she moves to join the rest of us. She opens her lips to say something else, but a soft growl issues from my right, where my arm still loops through Maljha’s.

I look over at them just as they give a minute shake of their head, eyes narrowed in Lore’s direction. The other Crimson’s lips draw into a hard line.

“It is done, and time to celebrate,” declares the king, his booming announcement putting an end to their silent face-off. As the celebrants cheer their agreement, skeletons of all shapes and sizes pour from the arched palace entryway, laden with chairs and tables and platters which they arrange with rapid precision.

Ejirad leads our group to the grand table laid out before the throne, seating me beside him. To my other side, Leon sits—though directly on the stone, rather than a chair. My two goblets are quickly filled, one with water and the other with wine. Skeletons with trays of food stop before each of us, offering an array of dishes from which I pick and choose until I’ve got a heaping plateful.

Everything’s delicious, of course—but it’s blood I’m truly craving. I’d had to abstain for a day preceding the Dedication, and Lore sitting upwind of me doesn’t help. But every dinner in Skyr seems to include a serving of some kind of marrow dish, and I wolf mine down before anything else. It takes the edge off.

As I’m finishing the last of my food, several courtiers get up from their seats at various tables, all of them gathering near the center of the throneyard as skeletons hurry over to them, proffering instruments.

Before long their warmups come to a conclusion and the true music begins to swell—somehow both triumphant and haunting in turns. Maljha stands from their spot several seats down, gliding up to me with one lithe hand extended.

“May I offer you the first dance?” Their gaze fixes on mine, and there’s a strange urgency in their eyes.

“Oh—um, of course,” I stammer, placing my hand in theirs. As they lead me to the open circle of space around the performers, others pair up to follow us. Each of us places our right hand to the other’s shoulder and our left to their waist, a traditional stance for the Avdayari, if I’m to guess by looking around me. But it’s awkward and unfamiliar for me.

Maljha glances around, then ducks their head a bit to speak in a rapid hush.

“Ashwyn, now that you’ve been through the Dedication, there are things I need to tell you. Things I wasn’t allowed to before. It slipped my mind when we were in the tent. I was too shocked about your Sign…but then Lore came out a Domedra, and I knew I had to say something before she made her move.”

“What are you talking about, Maljha?”

“Joining in a Circle…you really hadn’t learned much about it before you came here?”

I wrinkle my nose. “No. In class we’d only just begun to dip our toes in the subject.”

“It’s more than what Lore told you. It’s a bond so intense you can’t understand it until you experience it. Your circle becomes your family. If you have a lover, or lovers…they’re people in your Circle. If you have best friends, they’re people in your circle. All other relationships just sort of…pale in comparison. You’ll crave your circlemates, crave their presence, and you won’t really want anyone else. Do you understand me?”

I’m unable for a moment to speak as we drift together across the stone. Panic weakens my limbs, and I grip my cousin’s waist and shoulder tighter to hold myself steady.

“Does Lore know this?”

Maljha shakes their head. “I’m not sure, but she certainly knew more about Dedication than she was supposed to, so it’s possible.”

“So…so if I go through with the plan, if I join in a Circle…I—I won’t be able to love E.J. anymore?”

“Not in the same way. Not so long as you remain Joined…and circles can only be undone if their Viridian dies.” Maljha’s expression twists as if pained, their gaze unwavering, still fixed on mine.

My breathing transitions to rapid, shallow gasps as I stare at them. Then I just start shaking my head.

“I won’t do it, then. I can’t. Unless E.J. manages to get through the gate in ti—“ but I trail off, because I know that she never wants to be Circled again. Never wants to be polyamorous. And even if she did agree, the pain of forcing her into something she doesn’t truly want, and then being apart from her indefinitely…

“I just can’t do it,” I repeat again.

“Ash…I don’t think you’ll be able to avoid it.”

My lips part to argue, to refuse again, to say the plan has to change, and that’s all there is to it.

And then the screaming starts.