“That is enough!” the Magistrate bellows, the cathedral hall falling as silent as Ashenvale. “Is this a brothel or a commencement of honor? Alphonse, if you will.”
The general bows deeply to his father, mostly to hide the pink tinge of his cheeks, I think. Once he’s finally upright again, Alphonse turns his back to the crowd and finally assesses the recruits.
With his palm turned up, Alphonse signals for Dimitri. “Step forward, Initiate.”
Together, they walk to a pedestal on the other end of the platform, opposite the Magistrate. A silver bowl rests atop the velvet pillow, but it’s too tall for me to see what’s inside. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
“Dimitri Adams of Gravenburg. You heard the call of your people to defend your land to your dying breath. Their fears are yours; their survival is in your hands. Are you prepared to fight for them, every day for the rest of your life?”
Dimitri stands as solid as a statue. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing when he answers, “Yes, General, I vow it.”
Alphonse reaches for the pedestal and retrieves a tool resting on the plush pillow. From this distance, I can’t see what it is right away, only that the rod he’s holding matches the silver of the bowl, and the tip of the instrument is as black as night. He dips it into the basin and suddenly I understand why.
Alphonse brings the dripping brush to Dimitri’s face and draws the necro-ink symbols upon his skin. When he’s finished, he sets the brush into the bowl instead of on the pillow and grabs a scrap of fabric, one that bears the shape of a shield on the other side. His Crusader’s sigil, the only mark of rank any of us will ever receive.
“I present you, Dimitri Adams, with the rank of Crusader. Take your sigil and accept your place among the Shadow Crusade.”
Dimitri smacks one fist to his chest, reaching out with his other hand to retrieve the patch. “With honor,” he says, and returns to stand in the row with the rest of us.
One by one, Alphonse summons each of the recruits up to the pedestal. He paints their necro-ink on for them and presents each of them with their patches, the white phoenix sigil amid a backdrop of royal purple.
A few aren’t as lucky though.
Maxwell is the first to receive the rank of ward, a gold bird of less magnificence, its wings spread before a grey backdrop. Another girl who has shown little promise is also given the title. To my surprise, they both appear far more grateful for the honor than I would be.
Fox is summoned next. She is just a few people down from me in the row, and my heart quickens all the faster as my time draws nearer. She clutches her collar bone and the token I know to be concealed beneath her leathers. When this is all said and done, when we are finally Crusaders and therefore as bound as family, as sisters, I will finally muster the courage to ask the significance of the silver ring she wears around her neck.
“Foxlynn Abigail of Gravenburg. You heard the call of your people to defend your land to your dying breath. Their fears are yours; their survival is in your hands. Are you prepared to fight for them, every day for the rest of your life?”
“Yes, General, I vow it,” she replies.
Alphonse makes quick work with the necro-ink and pulls Fox’s patch from the stack.
“I present you, Foxlynn Abigail, with the rank of ward. Take your sigil and accept your place among the Shadow Crusade.”
Ward? Ice trickles through my veins. Fox can’t stay here. She deserves to fight in the unit just like the rest of us. This is absurd. She’s just as skilled in weaponry, knows just as much about the shadowcreatures as any of us.
But Fox doesn’t falter. She dips her head and accepts the sigil with a polite, “With honor.”
She meets my gaze on her way back to our row and shakes her head as if to tell me not to worry about it. I don’t know how I can not worry. For whatever reason, he plans to keep her trapped here, to torment her as his personal slave, and she doesn’t deserve it.
Sobering fear rolls over me. If he has decided she will remain here, then certainly he’s decided the same fate for me.
The other recruits take their turns. I drown out their induction. My panicked thoughts are thundering inside my skull, a raucous whirlwind that’s far too loud for me to hear anything else.
Someone clears their throat. “I said step forward, Initiate.”
I blink the cathedral into view and find that all eyes are on me, including Alphonse’s. They’re full of fiery impatience and I stumble forward.
“Halira Devonshire of…Gravenburg,” he says the word with disdain, likely wishing he could force me to claim my mother’s homeland instead, despite the fact that I’ve never stepped foot in the Eyve. His eyes are cold on mine. “You heard the call of your people to defend your land to your dying breath. Their fears are yours; their survival is in your hands. Are you prepared to fight for them, every day for the rest of your life?”
My voice is brittle, but I muster the courage I need to speak the words that will end this quickly. “Yes, General, I vow it.”
The necro-ink slides onto my skin as sickening as ever. I breathe through my mouth to avoid the smell, until he places the line on my bottom lip. When he’s finished, he takes one of the last patches. The sigil side faces him so that all I can see is the same shield shape he’s handed everyone.
Finally, he places the patch in his palm and shows it to me.
All of the patches resemble one another in most ways. The crest of the Shadow Crusade is a crowned phoenix with splayed wings. The backdrop is always a combination of black and purple, the variances of which determine rank.
My eyes blink repeatedly, unconvinced that what they’re seeing is true.
“I present you, Halira Devonshire, with the rank of Crusader. Take your sigil and accept your place among the Shadow Crusade.”
My hand floats to the patch as if I were in a dream. “W-with honor,” I say, breathless.
Clutching the patch to my chest, I scuttle back to the rows of recruits before Alphonse can change his mind. I don’t hear any more of the ceremony; I’m too busy staring down at my patch, my reward, the very thing I’ve worked relentlessly for.
When Alphonse concludes the ceremony, I catch my sister’s glittering gaze in the crowd as she stares up with something akin to pride. By the time I walk up to meet her, whatever glint had been there is gone. Perhaps it had just been the candlelight reflecting in her grey eyes.
“Care to walk with me?” she asks.
I bow at the hip and stretch my arm out. “Lead the way.”
We take our time walking the grounds, a heavy fog settling at our feet that feels like it belongs more in the autumn months than now as we’re departing from winter.
My sister is quiet, and if I know her at all, then I know her mind is at work. She keeps eyeing me when she thinks I’m not paying attention, but her penetrating gaze is difficult to ignore when it lances through me.
“What is it?” I finally ask.
But she simply shakes her head. “It’s your ink. Your cross is crooked.”
Reflexively, my hand comes to my forehead. Embarrassment overcomes me. How could I be so sloppy as to mark myself with a crooked cross during my swearing-in? But it’s then I remember, I wasn’t the one who applied my necro-ink today.
“Alphonse,” I grumble.