Page 5 of Harbinger

My stomach sinks as I stare at the slender dagger. She holds it out, and I fumble taking it. There are stars and lines engraved on the silver blade. Its gold hilt is studded with sapphires and diamonds, all connected by more etchings. It’s utterly ridiculous, but the dagger is light, almost dainty, and it fits in my palm like it was made especially for me. I turn it over like I’ll find instructions written on the other side.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask, still studying it while I process what’s happening.

I’m standing in the Royal Astrolatory.

Where a less-than-talkative semi-priestess anointed me.

And she just handed me a knife.

The pit in my stomach grows.

“Do what needs to be done,” she murmurs.

I think of the initiate wiping his clean hands. Of what little information my brother gave me about tonight. But it’s the haunted sadness in her eyes—the same look that my father got during the seasonal slaughter—that tells me exactly what needs to be done.

Fuck this.

And fuck my brother for acting like this was a simple rite of passage.

A girl should be warned when knives are going to be involved in the evening’s activities.

The vesper gestures to the door in front of us but doesn’t reach for its knob.

I’m being tested.

I have to open it this time. I have to walk inside.

Or I could turn around. She can’t stop me. Not while I’m the one holding the knife.

“I’m not …” I swallow back the words.

She places a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me forward. “Remember who you are, Arden Icaros.” She emphasizes my family name like I did outside the astrolatory—as if I need to be reminded. “Then do what needs to be done.”

You’re an Icaros. Act like it.

I clutch the dagger, Broderic’s words nudging me toward the door.

No wonder that initiate nearly ran from the astrolatory. Raised to heal his entire life, then given a dagger at the door. Order Leontia has always felt the most like ours.

Until today.

Today, I see the difference between us. He probably didn’t know why she gave him this knife. I do. But something sour pools in my stomach. It clenches and twists as I touch the door. The heavy slab swings open with a hiss and a rush of cold air. I don’t dare look back to see if the vesper follows me inside. I don’t turn when the door closes with a soft but ominous thud.

After the gold-flecked marble and extravagance of the rest of the building, the observatory is depressingly sparse, though the circular stone room with its flaming torches feels more like my home astrolatory. Damp air prickles my nose, the scent of musty stone and faded incense mingling with something metallic that sticks in the back of my throat.

I know that tang, but there isn’t a speck of blood to be found.

I choke back a cough rather than break the heavy silence. Centuries of rituals have worn the limestone floor smooth against my bare feet. An icy breeze drifts toward me, catching my hair and raising goose bumps all over my body. Looking up, I find endless night. There’s no ceiling above the circular chamber, not even glass, to separate this space from the Stars. They’re so close that my fingers itch to reach up and pluck one from the sky.

But that’s not why I’m here.

I drop my gaze, my eyes adjusting to the dim firelight, and find an altar. But it’s the tall man standing on the other side of the chamber who catches my attention. Tightness laces my chest, constricting more with each breath I take. He isn’t alone, but somehow, I only see him. He doesn’t move or speak, but his presence is as demanding and damning as the sky above me.

He is a column of shadow against the dull stone in his black uniform. The only color in the room is the red cloak that falls from his broad shoulders to the straps of his thick-soled boots.

Only bishops, the highest-ranked officers of Order Marius, wear that color. It’s a position so revered—so sacred in its duty—that many second-born nobles from their order train from the time they can walk in preparation to claim it. Few manage, but when they do, they give up everything—marriage, children, even their own names as proof of their unwavering dedication to protecting the people of Antares—and become simply Bishop.

There are only a handful that carry this rank in Antares. Each travels the continent, maintaining the law with little oversight from anyone save the king and the high vesper.