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The Supreme’s lips parted, and any political intimidation that had taken place last night was gone from her face. Emara could see in her eyes how much this ritual meant to her Supreme, and she was thankful for it.

“In the name of the three-faced God, Our Mother, give forth your left hand.”

Emara’s hand shook, but she held it out quickly, palm facing the moon. Deleine moved to the altar with grace, the wind tugging at her cloak, and retrieved a small dagger from her pocket. The magic from its blade called her hand towards it, and the Supreme slashed the knife across Emara’s palm in one swift movement. They both winced. Emara flinched again as the sting grew stronger from her broken skin. She placed her other hand behind her back to keep it from coming up and holding the pain that now burned in her slit skin, and she understood why the hunters hid their hands so much. There were always tell-tale signs on how someone felt when looking at their hands, how they flexed or strained or relaxed. She didn’t want to show anyone that she felt pain, so she scrunched her right hand behind her back until the pain subsided. Dark red blood escaped the slice in her hand and began pouring down her wrist.

“It will heal quickly,” the Supreme assured her. “The blade is enchanted with healing magic.”

The elder witch brought forth the dark bowl, and the Queen of Witches’ fingers curled around Emara’s wrist and squeezed hard. The blood flowed from her hand and splashed into the bowl where the burning incense had turned to ash. The purply-black ashes mixed with her blood to make a thick paste, and the Supreme stuck her thumb into it. Bringing her finger to Emara’s forehead, she etched a symbol onto her skin that marked who she was, who she would always be from this night until death claimed her.

It was a triangle with a score through the top.

The symbol of House Air.

The flames of the candles, all around, erupted higher, responding to the magic in her blood. The drumming boomed through the night again, this time elevated and harsh. The hairs on Emara’s skin rose, covering her in new signs that her magic heard it too. She could feel it, stirring in her bones, calling to her, threatening to reveal itself, but again, she talked it down.

The elder witch, who was now walking around the circle, dragging a broom, chanted in a language that was too ancient for Emara to know, and then stopped.

Torin, Artem, and Magin, stepped forward, and Emara’s gaze darted to them.

“Escort her to the circle,” the Supreme said, and her guards did their duty with haste.

Making her way to the cauldron, the Supreme began chanting in that same mother tongue of the ancients that once walked this earth. The elder witch, once done with a sweep that cleansed the circle, gestured for Emara to step into it.

Breaking the ancient tongue, both witches said in unison, “Bless the sacred circle.” The candle flames flew higher as Emara stepped inside the ritual space.

Other witches from the crowd stepped forward, causing Emara’s eyes to dash around. They were witches of House Air. They all held something in their hands, and as they walked over to the Supreme at the cauldron, Emara couldn’t make out what they were sacrificing to the cauldron. She thought she saw herbs and stones, maybe even living creatures, but they were sacrificed to the cauldron regardless.

A surge of energy jolted through her body, causing her spine to roll and her lips to part. Her heart accelerated. The cauldron was speaking to her as her blood mixed with the offerings to the Gods—to Rhiannon.

“The words that you must speak under the full moon,” the elder said, her voice wry and rough. “Speak them now, child, with meaning to the Gods of Light.”

Pulling on her courage, Emara swallowed her fear and looked to the moon that bloomed full against the dark blanket of the night. She always did have an entanglement with the moon that she’d never understood until now. It had been leading her here. That crafty, magical moon had always been guiding her here, to this moment.

She lifted her chin for everyone to see her bravery. With moonlight on her face, she began her chant.

“I am a droplet of water.

I am an ember of fire that burns.

I am the gust of air that gives breath.

I am the grounding grains of earth below my feet.

I am the spirit that my soul calls on, like the ancestors before me.”

The magic swirled in her veins; it pounded in her heart, sparking and igniting. Its strength could be felt, soaring through her soul. The staining of its power could be felt all over her body, causing her to feel nothing and everything all at once. She felt a rumble in the earth under her bare feet, and she curled her toes into the ground as heat began to swirl up her legs.

“In my magic, I trust.

In my element, I trust.

In my House and Coven of Air, I trust.

In myself, as Empress of House Air, I trust.”

Everything that was light, blood, water, salt, and dirt moved in her. A phantom wind of stars and moonlight swarmed the circle, aiding her magic, stimulating it. It whirled around her like the violent wind of the wild hunt. The vortex of magic seemed to pull up gravel, and it swirled it into the air. Sparks began lighting in the magic around her, and she was sure she could hear voices of ancient spirits speaking in a tongue lost to her now. Her head tilted back, and the beating of the drums felt like ecstasy in her mind as she let the enchantment pulse through her, beckoning to every spellbinding part of who she was. Her breathing deepened as she felt the push of sorcery build within her. It ripped at her loose dress and lashed at her dark hair.

“Repeat after me,” the Supreme’s voice could be heard from her place near the cauldron. “I hold the title Empress of Air.”