“We are the first, but we certainly won’t be the last,” Maariya swore. Then, her maroon eyes danced with an idea. “We should mark ourselves. Show the world who we are. Assyria is already our symbol for hope. What better way to honor her courage than to ink it into our skin?”

Before I could protest that I needed no such veneration, Vokkia clapped her hands, excitement curving her lips upward. Izzenna leaped to her feet and raced toward the bunks. “I have an idea.”

Delight danced in Kiira’s expression. “This is what we need,” she said under her breath.

I knew that on an intellectual level, Rokath and I were supposed to become a myth unto ourselves. But this?

I wasn’t worthy.

Izzenna returned with parchment and charcoal and sketched out a design. The four of us waited in eager silence. Her smile grew and grew as her hand flew across the page. When she finished, she whipped it around to show us.

My breath caught.

An eye, open to the world, greeted us. Instead of a colored iris at the center, a blooming rose waited. Sharp points speared from the top and bottom, almost like twin daggers.

“For the eyes of devious burgundy that Kiira saw,” Izzenna explained, tracing the outline. “For the roses on your helmet. For our femininity.” She tapped the bloom in the center. “For the power we wielded before and the power we will wield now. For our unity in this battle to be seen.” She dragged a finger along the length of the long line.

Tears pricked the back of my nose, and I had to press my lips together to hold back a joyful sob. “It’s perfect.”

Izzenna brightened. “Do you think so?”

I nodded, and the others murmured their assent.

“How will we mark ourselves with it though?” I asked, the H’s carved into my wrists aching at the thought.

Vokkia giggled and yanked up her sleeve, revealing swirls of ink so much like Rokath’s. “I gave these to myself during one of my rebellious periods before I became a priestess. All I need is a needle, ink, and silver. All of which I happen to have in my bag.”

She went to fetch it while Maariya gathered clean cloths and a basin of water.

“Assyria should go first. It is in her honor after all,” Vokkia announced once she had all her tools prepared and ready to use.

“Where should I put it?” I asked her. Rokath had tattoos everywhere. Other than the perfect circle between my shoulder blades and his initial on my wrists, my skin was unmarred.

“Your forearm, I think,” Vokkia said.

I shrugged off my jacket and then settled beside her, arm outstretched. She wiped my skin clean, lingering on the H on my wrist. Rather than shame rising, pride bloomed. Rokath had claimed me as his long before either of us consciously wanted it. And now, I wouldn’t change that moment for anything.

Vokkia dipped the needle into the ink and silver mixture, then poked it into my skin. I hissed at the first intrusion, but she worked quickly, and soon, the pain dulled. We fell into further conversation about the war, combat skills, magic wielding, and of course, the males. I forgot she was working at all until she pronounced my tattoo finished.

With a final wipe of cloth on my arm, she revealed the design Izzenna had sketched. Joy crested inside me as I traced the lines with a featherlight touch. “Thank you.”

Vokkia beamed at me. “Anything for you, Assyria.”

Kiira went after me, and once we had our matching symbols on our forearms, we admired them together. Those tattered pieces of my heart stitched together at the sight. Especially as Izzenna begged to be next.

“This is only the beginning,” Kiira murmured. I lifted my gaze to meet hers. “There is so much more to come.”

“I couldn’t do any of this without you,” I whispered back, vision blurring. We embraced, and she smelled of moon lotus and lavender—the floral scents drawing my days of tending to a garden to the surface.

How far I’d come, how much I’d changed since then.

When we broke apart, each of us had to dry our tears.

“Assyria and I had better return to our rooms before we’re missed. And before these are noticed.” She gestured to our now-empty glasses and bottles. “We’ll sneak back tomorrow to see everyone’s tattoos.”

Maariya packed up everything for us, and with aching limbs, I rose from my place on the couch. Stretching my arms overhead, I bent from side to side, trying to work out the soreness creeping in.

With warm embraces, we said our goodbyes, and then Kiira and I slunk out of the barracks under the cover of darkness. We dropped our basket off with the final kitchen worker before navigating the maze of halls to the two rear towers where our rooms awaited us.

At the door, I let out a long sigh, preparing to brace for the climb.

“Will you join me in my room for a moment?” Kiira asked, shifting her weight.

“Of course,” I told her, my curiosity piqued.

What could she possibly want this late?

Without another word, she disappeared through the arched entry to Xannirin’s tower. We trekked up a few flights before she stopped at her door. Kiira’s rooms looked untouched, and though they weren’t as fine as Rokath’s, they were still cozy and clean. Shutting us in, she clicked the lock into place. Then, she pressed her ear to the wood as if she were listening for any sign of someone following us.

What did she know that I did not?

Suspicion twisted my gut, and I remained still and silent, waiting for her next move. A few moments passed with no sound, and finally she stepped away from the door.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, aiming for one of the plush seats in a ring by the windows.

Yet when she settled herself in it, she fidgeted, not quite able to get comfortable. On hesitant feet, I approached, easing into one beside her. I crossed my legs over one another and twisted my ring around my finger, wondering what had the High Priestess so agitated.

“Is everything okay?” I ventured, hoping to prompt her into speaking.

“Well…no.” She looked at her hands, shoulders slumping inward. “Do you remember our first solo conversation?”

“When we were in the garden?” I clarified. She nodded. “I do.” We’d talked about why I didn’t want to be a priestess, the pain I’d endured at the hands of my dead husband, and my future in the Demon Realm. She’d promised to find out information about Olrus…

My throat thickened at the thought of my friend, burned for protecting my secret. That also reminded me of Izgath, and another wave of guilt swept up from the deep.

“Did you not tell me everything in your letter?” I choked out.

She whipped her head up, concern etching her face. “Fates, no, this isn’t about you. I’m sorry, I should have clarified. It’s about…me.”

Relief washed through me before my mind caught up to Kiira’s words and worry replaced it. “Has something happened?”

She swallowed hard, burgundy eyes growing glassy. She looked up to the ceiling and dragged in a serrated breath. “It was so much easier to ignore it, you know?”

“Kiira…” I breathed, my voice softening with sorrow.

“I haven’t told Rokath and Xannirin yet, and I don’t know, I just…can’t. They’d look at me differently.” She finally met my gaze, and the tears had already fallen. I wiped them gently from her face.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked, closing the distance between us.

“I think I need to talk about it with someone who understands,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“I’m here,” I promised her, rubbing soothing strokes over her forearm with my thumb.

“You won’t know him, but he’s one of the more prominent nobles in the realm. He holds a lot of sway with the others, and he produces much of what we need in the realm.” She paused, fingers digging into the tops of her thighs. “Why did I drink what he offered me?” Her voice cracked on that question, and she folded in on herself, burying her face in her hands. Sobs wracked her frame, and I moved my ministrations to her back. Letting her know I was there. That I saw her pain.