Page 1

Chapter 1

The Rite

T he price for life would always be pain. Sylzenya breathed in deeply as she reminded herself of this truth—the first she’d been taught as a child. Yet it proved difficult to keep the scream in the back of her throat while the cut on her back burned from her goddess’ power.

“Come on, Syl, don’t be a baby,” Her friend Nyla seethed as they pushed their palms into the earth.

Sylzenya huffed a strained laugh. “You’re the one sweating, not me.”

Their goddess’ golden power encircled them, swirls of light wrapping around their arms and torsos, diving deep into the open flesh of their backs. Sylzenya let out a triumphant shout as a sprout poked from the ground, green and vibrant. She pushed harder into the soil—listening.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The earth’s heartbeat thrummed against her palms—her goddess’ heartbeat. Pain mingling with excitement, Sylzenya beckoned the sprout to rise. It obeyed, a trail of golden light pushing it up until it was high above her head. Before it could reach the tops of the willow trees, Sylzenya curled her fingers into the dirt. The sprout bloomed, yellow petals unfurling, a rain of pollen floating through the air.

“Finished,” Sylzenya said with a smirk, releasing her hands from the ground. The golden light retreated into the earth. Warm blood trailed down her back, soaking into the white fabric of her robe and dripping into the soil.

Nyla grunted, following her lead, a green sprout poking its head through the dirt right before she released her hands.

“You know, I really hate you sometimes,” Nyla mumbled.

Sylzenya raised a brow. “You said to not hold back, so I don’t.”

“Doesn’t make it any less infuriating.”

“If you want, I can go easy?—”

“ Never go easy on me.”

Sylzenya leaned forward, a playful joke sitting on her tongue, but then the glimmer in her friend’s eyes faded.

“Nyla,” Sylzenya said, “you’re going to do just fine.”

“Easier said than done,” she replied, staring at Sylzenya’s flower stalk, “Tell me again why you, of all people, still need to participate in the rite?”

Sylzenya touched the stem of her flower, the stalk soft as a bird’s feather. “Because unlike you, of all people, I actually enjoy our traditions.”

Her friend smirked. “You just want the attention.”

“ Me ? Attention?”

They stared at one another, grins peeking through feigned seriousness. Sylzenya broke first, her laughter bubbling up like a fresh spring as Nyla joined her.

“You’re not completely wrong,” Sylzenya admitted. “The High One wants me to debut my power so word can spread.”

“The High One certainly likes his displays, doesn’t he?”

“He does,” Sylzenya agreed.

She dug at the base of her newly created flower, dirt gathering under her fingernails until she found what she was searching for. The orodyte stone she’d buried and used with her goddess’ power glowed a bright yellow. Gently, she took it in her hand and then placed it in her pocket. Nyla dug out her orodyte, the stone still clear as crystal.

“Nothing like an empty piece of orodyte to bolster my spirit.” Nyla scoffed with an irritated smile.

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” Sylzenya said.

“Are you blind?” She pointed to her small green sprout and held up her clear stone. “My power hasn’t grown since the day I arrived at the temple, and there’s no changing that.”

“Restraint isn’t weakness,” Sylzenya argued, “you might create less vegetation in one day, but you have one of the highest monthly harvests. Your consistency is what our kingdom needs, not sporadic moments of brilliance followed by days of dryness.”

Nyla stared into the blue sky. “I hope you’re right.”

“You know I’m right. Besides, you’ve gotten much quicker,” Sylzenya said, brushing her finger along the green sprout, “You’ll do fine in the rite today.”

“ Today. ” Nyla shot to her feet. “What time is it?”

Sylzenya grinned as she used her friend’s arm to pick herself up. “Calm yourself. The sun’s almost up, so we’re right on schedule.”

They grabbed their green cloaks, running out of the temple’s gardens and falling in step with the other women acolytes wearing the same green cloaks. Sunlight spilled on the dirt path like a river of gold, leading them towards their final ceremonial rite. Sylzenya’s white robe, hemmed with golden thread, peaked through the heavy green material, catching the light and reflecting its glimmer on the surrounding branches.

Smile widening, she wrapped her fingers around the clear orodyte hanging from her neck.

“Are you ready to see your parents?” Nyla asked.

Sylzenya’s mouth fell flat.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose,” she replied, a fingernail scratching along the stone. “And what of your Aunt?”

Nyla’s nostrils flared, her smile fading as she gripped her own piece of clear orodyte. “Ten years changes a lot of things. I’ve wondered if I’ll recognize her.” Her warm amber eyes turned to Sylzenya’s, “Or, if she’ll recognize me.”

They walked in silence, the branches brushing softly in the breeze.

“She will,” Sylzenya replied.

Walking barefoot on the damp soil, she breathed deeply as she felt for her goddess’ power in the earth. It sang back to her, sparks of light singeing into her palms and up her forearms. The scar along her back stung, but Sylzenya didn’t fear the pain.

She embraced it.

The familiar tall atrium stood before them. Green vines looped in and around the white stone structure. The willow trees bent in reverence towards the white marble throne, their presence encasing the ancient grove.

The High One, their kingdom’s leader, sat on the throne, elevated above the small crowd. He was surrounded by four priestesses in golden robes. A willow grew behind the throne–the one she’d created ten years ago, when she was only fourteen years old. Her heartbeat quickened. The willow was fuller now, leaves bright and branches drooping like a waterfall spilling over a cliff side.

The High One’s yellow gaze found hers.

“Welcome, acolytes of Aretta’s temple,” he announced as he stood. Long white hair fell to his waist, his straight nose carved like the marble statues lining the grove. “Please find those who dedicated you to our goddess’ temple. We will begin the Kreena Rite shortly.”

Sylzenya’s mouth went dry.

Standing at the bottom of the dais were people in white and brown linens. But, it was the man with her same dark blue eyes and the woman with her same ash-colored hair that caught her gaze. The lines around their eyes had deepened, her father’s forehead more creased than the last she’d seen and her mother’s mouth thinner than before.

She should smile like the other acolytes, greeting her parents warmly. And then, she should thank them for leaving her at this grove after she created her willow all those years ago, her connection to her goddess the only reason she cared to wake up anymore.

She should tell them she loved them.

But then she’d be lying.

Muscles tensed and chin tilted up, Sylzenya approached her parents. They stared at her, eyes welling with tears. Heat rushed through her body as they embraced her. She wanted to yell, to force them off of her, but then she’d cause a disruption.

And there was nothing she hated more than displeasing the High One.

“Oh, my flower bud,” Sylzenya’s mother choked out as her thin fingers curled around Sylzenya’s neck. “We’ve missed you so much.”

Her father said nothing as his breaths trembled, his strong hand gripping her shoulder tightly to him. Hands shaking, she forced her arms down at her sides. She hated how she yearned for their familiar scent—like a spring’s first rain; a cold piece of linen on her forehead during hot summer nights; warm blankets in front of a dancing flame.

She thought she’d buried such feelings years ago, but here they were—fresh and potent—as if her body had forgotten the sting of abandonment.

“Welcome,” Sylzenya managed as they finally released her.

A tear fell down her father’s cheek, his brown hair now a gentle shade of gray.

“It felt like this day would never come,” he whispered, his calloused hand caressing her face.

Sylzenya flinched. His eyes widened, smile fading as he dropped his hand. She turned to the High One, his yellow eyes sharp, a comfort in this otherwise dreaded moment. She quickly stepped away from her mother and father, wiping nonexistent dirt off her cloak.

“Yes, well, it’s wonderful to see you both,” she said, not looking at either of them.

Her parents opened their mouths to say something, but the High One’s deep voice boomed through the grove.

“Today is a celebration,” he announced, hands outstretched. “Our goddess continues to protect us from the famine ravaging the continent, a curse her brother, Distrathrus, had meant to impose to destroy us all. Aretta blessed our kingdom in her final moments centuries ago, granting our women with the power to connect with her mysterious power stored within the earth. May we never know hunger or thirst because of it. Praise be to Aretta.”

Everyone echoed the prayer.

“Each acolyte will approach the sacred soil with the leader of their household. The leader will then grant their blessing by opening the wound by which our acolytes and Kreenas connect to our goddess. You must then create what is requested of you. If you succeed, then you will be declared a Kreena.” He paused, smoothing out his robe. “If you don’t, then you will remain an acolyte, for our richest earth is meant for Kreenas capable of sustaining our people.”

The High One found Sylzenya’s stare, his outstretched hand forming a fist.

“Let us begin the ceremony,” he said.

Women approached the sacred soil one at a time. Out of the fifteen preceding Sylzenya, nine of them failed. Thankfully, Nyla wasn’t one of them. Her ability to create a bush of blueberries had been enough for her to gain her Kreena title. Grief filled the grove as a tenth woman failed. With each passing year, fewer acolytes were able to become Kreenas. Yet with each passing day, the famine grew closer. A silent tension hung in the air, a quiet question seeping through the leaves:

Would their people survive?

“Sylzenya Phatris,” the High One finally announced, “Your power has grown beyond any acolyte this kingdom has witnessed in centuries, and so, I would like you to create our goddess’ most sacred of creations—a willow.”

Everyone in the grove murmured. It was an advanced power, creating a willow, and it was never performed at a Kreena Rite. Sylzenya smiled. This would be the opportunity to show how vast her power had become over the years—to provide hope for her kingdom, just like the High One had requested of her.

She would save her kingdom from the encroaching famine.

Her father joined her in approaching the patch of earth lined by white marble. She unlatched the golden pin that held her green cloak at her sternum, allowing the heavy material to pool around her. Her white Kreena robe wrapped around her body, its design leaving open skin at her hips and chest; two long slits down the sides exposed her sun-kissed legs. A large gap revealed the cut on her back, already scabbing over from the morning’s practice.

She looked like a woman.

A Kreena .

Sylzenya turned to her father, hating how the rite called her to kneel before him, towards a man who gave her away as a child.

Breaths shaking, her father revealed the branch he had chosen to carve the wound into her back. It was a white birch, a strange choice of wood for this rite as willows were the more traditional choice, but Sylzenya didn’t question it. All she desired was to connect with her goddess’ power—to finally become a Kreena.

“You may begin,” the High One commanded.

A single calloused finger brushed her shoulder, her father’s breaths short while he whispered a quick prayer. He carved the pointed tip of the branch along her scabbed scar. Sharp and shallow, Sylzenya clenched her teeth, closing her eyes as the warmth of her blood dripped down her shoulders and her back, soaking into her white robe.

“Praise be to Aretta.” Her father’s voice wavered as he spoke.

Slowly opening her eyes, Sylzenya echoed the prayer.

Turning to the patch of soil bordered by marble, she unclasped the clear orodyte from her necklace. She dug a shallow hole and buried the stone, careful to cover it in its entirety. She took a deep breath as she placed her palms upon the earth.

The soil grew warm. Her fingers ached as she breathed in the earth. The energy from the dirt beckoned to her, begging to become one with her.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Aretta’s power thrummed against her skin, a living heartbeat as familiar as her own. She grasped for her goddess’ power. With a single breath, golden light released from the ground, trailing wide circles around her wrists, up her forearms, and slicing deep into the soft open flesh of her back. The familiar pain started at her shoulder, dragging down and across until it reached her hip, as if a thin dagger were cutting into her skin.

She breathed out.

The energy circled back the way it had come, crawling under her arms, releasing out of her palms, and retreating into the soil. She gulped, breaths steadied as she placed every thought into her connection between skin and earth.

Blood and blood.

Life.

Maintaining focus on her hands, she waited for the green sprout to poke between her fingers. She imagined the bright leaves unfolding from its center, slow and graceful, the stem rising on a golden trail of light, just as it always did.

Suddenly, the heartbeat ceased.

Sylzenya tilted her head. It’d been years since she’d lost concentration so quickly. She closed her eyes as she reached for the power within the earth again.

Instead, she was met with an icy chill under her fingers… and silence.

Sweat dripped down her arms. Shaking her head, she redirected her focus deeper into the soil. She coupled her focus with a seed of truth; she was to be the hope for her people. Without her, there wouldn’t be enough Kreenas to sustain the kingdom. She needed to push more, to concentrate more, to feel more.

The need consumed her as the earth grew warm against her palms, her heart racing fast as she dug her fingers deeper and deeper into the soil. She grasped for power, for life—for pain.

Silence consumed her instead.

Blood seeped from her back and onto the soil, the steady flow causing her vision to blur. Something was wrong. She lifted her head to the High One, his brow was deeply furrowed as he stared at her hands.

The orodyte.

Sylzenya dug out the piece of orodyte. The stone was crystal clear—pure and without cracks or defects, just as it was supposed to be prior to its use.

The ominous silence heaved onto her chest as if a tree had fallen on her.

If the orodyte wasn’t the problem, then that would mean…

A priestess stepped in front of her, the holy woman’s arms spread out, her golden robe blinding as she began to recite the words that would reject Sylzenya’s Kreena title.

Announcing her failure to the entire grove.

“ Wait ,” Sylzenya begged, burying her hands into the soil, searching for her goddess’ heartbeat—but it was gone.

“ Enough, Priestess,” the High One’s voice boomed.

Silence thick as fog filled the grove. The priestess stopped, her words melting into the air.

“Theraden,” the High One called, “bring me the branch you used for your daughter’s back.”

Her father stiffened.

The High One stepped forward, arm outstretched. “The branch, Theraden.”

Sylzenya stood, staring at her father. Wide pleading eyes and a color-drained face stared back. Something twisted inside her chest.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” her father whispered, his knuckles a painful white as he gripped the branch.

Heat rising along her neck, she snatched the branch from his hand. Her heart stilled. A yellow substance coated the branch, its color so faint against the white bark she’d missed it completely.

Orodyte serum.

Poison.

Though this one didn’t kill or maim humans, it stripped her people of their divine connection to Aretta; it stripped Kreenas of their power. Only their kingdom’s warriors were allowed to handle the substance, all ordained by the High One.

Sylzenya’s father wasn’t one of them.

“No,” Sylzenya breathed, looking to her father, “You wouldn’t?—”

“Sylzenya, listen to me, please.”

But nothing he could say would make a difference. She could sense it clearly now, a loss within her fingertips, an emptiness where a heartbeat used to thrum with assured steadiness.

A part of her… lost.

“You—” she whispered, spit thickening in her mouth, “You bastard. ”

“We never wanted to give you to the temple. Sylzenya, we love you?—”

“ Love? ” she shouted, the branch’s splinters piercing her skin. “You call this love? Stripping me of our goddess’ power? Dooming our people?”

Sylzenya regretted the words as she said them. Everyone in the grove gasped. She shouldn’t be reacting this way; she was supposed to bring hope, not fear.

“Sylzenya, please—” her mother whispered, reaching for her arm.

Sylzenya held up her hands, tears streaking her face. “You’re no parents of mine.”

“ Seize them. ” The High One commanded.

Bright power erupted in the grove. Shouts rang in the air, warriors entering the ancient sanctum. Her mother and father didn’t fight as they were secured, hands tied behind their backs, pieces of vines secured around their mouths. Their muffled cries muted in Sylzenya’s ears as a soft breeze brushed her face, the earth beneath her nothing but dirt and ash.

She dropped the birch branch.

“Sylzenya,” Nyla called, “come on, let’s get out of here.”

But her friend’s voice spoke to her as if from a distance. Everything around her had blurred. Numb and chilled to the bone, she wrapped her fingers in her robe. The life she’d worked for— breathed for —these last ten years… taken with a tree branch to her back. She should’ve known better than to trust her father , her holy cut now defiled by his hands. Tears wet the earth at her feet; heat spread to her limbs; a sting ran up her nose into her forehead.

Aretta, please, hear me.

She waited. No answer came.

Someone started to yell. She jolted from her stupor, realizing the person yelling was her. As she beheld the grove, people kneeled before her.

Weeping.

Without her power, the famine would take her kingdom. Her home . Sadness quickly gave way to anger. It burned hotter than the pain of the orodyte serum in her back. Picking up the branch, she silently walked the only path she knew by heart; the path to the temple.

“Syl, where are you going?” Nyla questioned.

“The altar room,” Sylzenya stated. “I need to commune with Aretta.”

“Hold on. Let’s take this slow?—”

“ I need to commune with Aretta. ”

The earth felt dead under her feet as she broke into a run, her robe billowing as cold wind whipped her face. Grief threatened to choke her throat, but she held it back. Now wasn’t the time to cry. Her people needed her to be strong, they needed her to fix this. Willow branches scraped her face as she rushed out of the grove, mumbling prayer after prayer, begging her goddess to meet her through the ancient roots in the altar room. She needed a cure, a miracle— anything .

Without her power, there wouldn’t be enough Kreenas to fend off the famine.

Without her power, her people would die.