Kindra stepped out of the tent into a cacophony of celebration around the central fire circle. Warriors and their families milled about in small groups, chatting and drinking wine. The still-bloody marks of the inductees were lost in the sea of ash-darkened scars and beaded ceremonial shirts of the Eoin-named warriors.

A voice rose from the din nearby. “To the Odion Warrior!” Half of the crowd turned her way and cheered, their cups held up in salute. She froze, her gaze sweeping over them in surprise, before her mother gently shoved her into the fray.

People she’d never spoken to, who’d never given her so much as a second glance before, congratulated her as she walked through the crowd, trying to find an island of calm. She heard Gar’s familiar laugh and made a beeline towards his small group.

“We can trust Cameron Bardel,” she overheard Monkey Preston, Gar’s best friend, say as she neared. “I do believe he has a little crush on Kindra.” Monk winked at her. Kindra flushed as warm as the lacerations on her back.

“Cameron doesn’t have a crush…” she began, but the look Gar shot Monk stopped her. It was a look she didn’t know. A secret look. She thought she knew all Gar’s looks.

He elbowed Monk in the ribs. “Hush.”

Before Kindra could wonder what that meant, Petoskey Preston, second to the chief, bowed his head and touched two fingers to his brow. “Warrior Odion.”

Gar grabbed his arm and Petoskey’s head snapped up, a challenge in his eyes, until they landed on the younger warrior. To Kindra’s surprise, he acquiesced.

Gar’s eyes beamed with pride as he turned to her. He bowed, touched his fingers to his brow as Petoskey had, then pressed them to her forehead. “Warrior Odion.” His voice sounded almost reverential.

Kindra closed her eyes as his fingers lingered, warm against her skin. This was no normal congratulations—he was transferring his allegiance from her father to her. The weight of it settled over her like a mantle. When she finally looked at him she nodded, throat too tight to speak.

Petoskey did the same, then Wolf. Monk kissed the tips of his fingers and tapped her forehead. “Bride of Eoin.” He winked again.

Kindra’s gaze sailed towards the sky. “Spawn of the Obsidians,” she mumbled in return. Monk laughed and tussled her hair. She ducked, but pain ripped through her back and she grunted.

“Careful.” Gar grabbed a rag that was already smeared with a corner of blood from his pocket. “Don’t move too fast for the next week or you’ll re-open the mark.”

She sucked in a breath as the rough fabric stung the wounds. “You sound like Kaye.”

“Kaye’s treated most of my wounds.”

Kindra craned her neck, trying in vain to see the mark. “What does it look like?”

Monkey grinned. “Blood.”

Her gaze found the clouds again while Gar chuckled, the cloth still pressed to her back. When the cool autumn air kissed her skin she almost shivered.

“I can’t tell,” Gar frowned. “Adder perhaps? It looks like it could be snakes.”

“No,” Monk said. “Worms.”

Kindra snorted. “It’ll probably be something stupid and weak. Like Squirrel.”

“Or Sow,” Monk said.

“Doe,” Gar added with another chuckle.

“Perhaps it says Bride of Eoin, and your nickname is true.”

They all turned at Kaye’s soft voice. Her priestess dress shimmered with silver thread and glass beads, making her translucent wings seem a trick of the light. Kindra had only seen Kaye use them once—they wrapped around her back like a cape, and when she became excited they fluttered. Kindra hadn’t seen them flutter since their father died.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“Bleeding already?” Kaye tsked and handed Kindra a cup of wine before grabbing Gar’s cloth.

“Monk’s fault.” Kindra said.

Monkey raised his cup. “Isn’t it always? They should have named me Scapegoat.”

“Or Nuisance,” Kindra said, tapped his cup, and drank. Monk laughed and drank with her. They had grown up as close as siblings, and when Fennec died it was Monk’s father who had kept the twins from starving until Kindra could hunt big game on her own.

Kaye shook her head. “No more rough housing.”

Monk elbowed Kindra. “Hear that, Squirrel? No more rough housing. Priestess orders”

“Got it, Scapegoat.” Kindra tapped his cup again and hid her face in a long drink. What if she did end up with a girly name like Squirrel or Doe? Half of the tribe already expected her to fail—she’d never live it down.

The rest of the daylight hours were filled with rough housing, but not for the inductees. Named warriors competed in games and feats of skill, culminating in a mock battle to first blood. The inductees were already bloody and sore, so they cheered their brothers and friends. Gar won a sword from the head family of Fie Wain—the village of mining and metallurgy—which he gave to his brother as a naming gift.

As the sun faded behind the mountains to the west, the warriors moved from the fire circle in the center of Fie Eoin to the much larger bonfire on the training grounds, where the Deorsans—farmers, herders, and feast preparers—had set up makeshift tables. The smell of roasted meat permeated the air, but Kindra picked at her food. Her stomach roiled with anxiety and she couldn’t keep her mind off the naming.

Kaye touched her shoulder and Kindra’s erratic energy calmed.

“Don’t be nervous. You’ll have a strong name. Maybe a bird, based on your vision.” Kaye bent over and whispered in her ear, “Or a horse.”

Kindra gasped. “Don’t say that. No one can have that mark.”

Kaye poked the beaded horse on Kindra’s chest. “You could. But I wanted you to pay attention. The naming is about to start.”

Kindra grabbed her sister’s hand as nausea rolled her stomach again. The tempo of the drums picked up, nearly matching her heartbeat. The named warriors lined the tables on one side of the bonfire; the unnamed warriors and their families the other. An empty table remained for the inductees once they received their names.

Oak called the first inductee. “Cameron Bardel.”

Cameron walked to the chief, knelt, and the chief sprinkled oil over his back. A long pause followed, then the chief called out his new name. “Kingfisher!”

A cheer sounded from the tribe and Kingfisher rose with a starry-eyed grin to join the warriors. As more inductees bowed before the chief, the names ‘Sage’, ‘Agate’ and ‘Hawk’ were called out, among others. Joe and Kindra were last.

“Jorsen Bayn.”

His new sword scraped the ground when he knelt. There was a long pause—longer than the others, and Kindra wondered if everyone was wrong and he wasn’t ready to be a named warrior yet. Wouldn’t that wipe the cocky grin off his face?

Oak looked up. “Pike!”

The crowd’s cheer swallowed Kindra’s surprised gasp. It was almost the same name as his brother.

A smug grin splashed across Pike’s face as he walked to the warrior tables. Gar clasped him, but winked at Kindra over his shoulder and mouthed the words ‘good luck’.

“Kindra Odion.”

Kaye squeezed her hand and Kindra took a deep breath before walking to the bonfire. Even through the haze of vision wine the chief frowned. He’d argued with Wolf when she started practicing and hadn’t stopped until he stepped into the vision tent the night before.

Kindra paused before him, turned, and knelt. Warm drops of oil hit her back and seeped into the aching wounds. She was still as the long pause stretched out, waiting to hear her name called. Instead, she heard the rustle of garments and whispers of the crowd. Her heart contracted in her chest, making it difficult to breathe.

“Please, Eoin, give me a name,” she whispered, glad for the first time that her father wasn’t there to witness the ceremony. “Any name. Even Squirrel.”

The High Priestess’ skirt came into view, and Kindra shut her eyes against the sight. The High Priestess never spoke at the Warriors Ceremony—it was the chief’s domain. But the woman’s clear voice interrupted the murmurs of the crowd.

“It is rare that a warrior’s wounds not show a vision…”

Loud ringing in Kindra’s ears almost drowned out the priestess’ words as hot tears pressed against her eyelids. She'd failed. She'd soiled the Odion name and her father’s memory. Perhaps they would kill her now and save her from this shame.

“But it is also true that a warrior may not receive a name until a battle wound has completed the mark,” the High Priestess continued. “I welcome Kindra Odion as the first female warrior of Fie Eoin, and ask the God to bless her spirit for the battles to come, in which she may receive her name.”

A warm hand squeezed Kindra’s shoulder and she opened her eyes to stare at the dirt, her tears branding two dark spots. She stood, numb, to face the crowd for the second time that day. There was no cheering. She did not smile. If the High Priestess hadn’t turned her toward the warrior tables, Kindra wouldn’t have known which direction to go.

Jor—Pike now—smirked at her as she took her place next to him. Gar put a cup in her hands, but she couldn’t meet his eyes. It took all her willpower to keep her head up as the chief toasted the new warriors, and when she swallowed, the wine was bitter.