?nnywella steps out into the great hall, the nigh millennia-old architecture dwarfing her; the black marble floor is cold beneath her feet as she tries to match the confident stride of High Priestess Seliani, but she cannot; the thin silk robe is far too revealing, the rites far too dehumanizing—she wants to wrap her arms around herself and skulk away, she wants to stay ?nnywella Gekaryna Herst, she wants to stay herself, but she never had a choice, did she? for it had been made for her a decade ago; taking a sharp breath, she raises her head to look around the expanse of stone, marble, and wood before her, watching sunlight stream through the enormous and detailed stained-glass windows and their depictions of the kings, the queens, the legends that walked the same path that unravels itself before her; each seems to stare at her with a familial warmth, taking pride in the monarch of the future—all but the bloody eyes of Gekaryna I, which look upon her with what she can only describe as commiseration; the colored light tints the smoke spewed by grand silver censers swinging from chains as it dances above the heads of the crowd; She digs her nails into her thighs through the gown and descends the steps to the second floor, where she is met by ?ppolonia and Gelshk at the bottom of the stairs and is escorted to the large stone font.

  The font, ceremonial in nature and cut from a massive block of the same black marble as the floor, is about five meters in diameter and one and a half meters from rim to base. The rounded surface has been recessed with detailed depictions of stars, constellations, and the moons around the top; women in long gowns dance beneath them among tall trees and pyres. Each star and the three moons are filled with adularescence gems; the rest of the engraving has been filled in with silver. A silver edge guard covers the rim.

  With the help of a step stool, ?nnywella sits down on the edge, softly shivering as she feels the cold metal. She looks up towards Gyrshke, who peers down on her from above.

  Eue-Lysae looks away from Gekaryna and out across the great hall. She places her hands on the wooden railing of the third-floor balcony and clears her throat. “Loyal citizens of the Kingdom of the Great Moon of Our Lady.” Her voice booms throughout the hall, turning the heads of the folk towards her.

  The gallery falls silent; the last words of arrested conversations mingle together, echoing and reverberating among the tall black stone walls before fading away in the arches of the ceiling.

  Eue-Lysae continues. “I welcome you, whether of noble blood or of common birth, on behalf of both our lady, aela’Luhnylla and the Conclave of Our Pale Mother [1]. I, High Priestess Gyrshke Seliani, welcome you to the coronation rites and hopefully ceremony of the heir apparent—?nnywella Gekaryna Herst.”

  ?nnywella winces at the sound of her f?dhyrbrunem [2] but can do nothing in reaction; even outside of the rites, Gyrshke can address her however she pleases.

  “Before we continue, I must ask: do you, the people of our Kingdom of the Great Moon of Our Lady, accept the heir apparent as your monarch?”

  The crowd responds with a cacophonous assent.

  “Excellent, then I shall commence with the rites. For the crown of our kingdom doesn’t yearn to be worn; it demands the will of someone strong enough to wear it with their head held high.”

  Eue-Lysae steps away from the wooden railing of the top landing and descends the wooden stairs; the dark-red and gold embroidered runners soften her steps, but the stairs still creak beneath her. Her Tri-Lunar Dial bounces in front of her with each step, the silver case’s decorative reflecting and scattering the colored sunlight shining through the large stained glass windows of the great hall.

  Eue-Lysae stops in front of the font. She turns on the ball of her foot to face and address the crowd. “The heir apparent must be reborn; we cannot have one who is unclean—burdened internally, burdened externally by the ordure of the living—guide our great kingdom. She will emerge from this water void of name, void of history, clean of body, clean of mind, clean of blood—a flawless vessel for the will of the many.”

  Turning to face ?nnywella, she leans in, whispering, “This rite was not intended for a woman of your stature and habits, Gekaryna. You do not need to be submerged for the whole fifteen seconds—this could kill you. They will not count; they will not know the difference.”

  “I will know the difference.” ?nnywella’s voice shakes as she quietly responds. The Grand Hall is silent—devoid of human sounds; the only thing she can faintly hear is the creaking of the censer chains high above her, the soft breath of Gyrshke coming from the woman’s nose—and her own heartbeat, pounding, a deafening pulse in her ears; oh Gods, her heartbeat feels as though it is reverberating against the tall stone walls, so loud in her head she doubts she is the only one who can hear it, the people must be able to, her heart alone must be the cause of their silence—she feels her breathing grow fast as her heartbeat grows louder, so she forces herself to breathe deeply—she steadies herself, and the sound of her heartbeat diminishes; ?nnywella makes eye contact with Gyrshke, looking deeply for sympathy in the High Priestess’s eye and finding none. Pursing her lips, she nods.

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  “So be it.” Eue-Lysae steps back and begins the rite.

  “Do you agree to be born anew—reborn from the sacred waters of the moon? Do you agree to shed your mortal skin and accept this eternal life in the annals of time, regardless of if the voices of the future deem you worthy? Do you agree to abandon ?nnywella Gekaryna Herst and become the collective vessel of the people, become their voice? Do you agree to breathe in the water of the moon—to cleanse your blood so it is a pure offering to Kaladrae?”

  “I wish to be born anew as the vessel and voice of the people; I wish to be pure of blood.” ?nnywella takes a deep breath.

  “Dhounne gedtur. [3]” Eue-Lysae places her hand below Gekaryna’s collarbone and submerges her in the font.

  The cold rainwater of the night before engulfs ?nnywella’s upper body; wet hair floats up around her as she closes her eyes—fifteen seconds, only fifteen seconds; she begins to exhale slowly; one—the water quickly fills ?nnywella’s mouth as she attempts to breathe in deeply through her mouth; two—water quickly fills her lungs; her chest and throat burn; three—primal instincts to survive scream for her to pull herself out, but she cannot, she must not—she must be born anew; four—she coughs beneath the surface; bubbles float up as air is replaced with water; five—her knuckles go white as her grip tightens on the edge of the font; six—she opens her eyes; Gyrshke stares back at her from above the water, intermittently checking the large silver dial; seven—she feels her throat shut as her brain tries to prevent any more water from entering her lungs; eight—the time between her coughs grows; nine—the small amount of air in her lungs pushes against the water; ten—her head spins as she develops a feeling of weightlessness; eleven—her vision begins to tunnel; she focuses on Gyrshke, who is still staring at her, unblinking beneath knitted brows; twelve—legs spasming; her hands soon follow, and she loses grip on the font; thirteen—she falls deeper into the font; through blurry vision she sees her feet kicking above the surface of the water as her back hits the bottom; fourteen—the surface of the water breaks as the two priestesses reach in to grab her, but Gyrshke’s hand shoots up, stopping them from pulling her out—the hands vanish; fifteen—the greyness of tunnel vision closes in, a void circling the blurry frame of Gyrshke.

  Eue-Lysae drops her hand and closes the watch between her fingers with a click. ?ppolonia and Gelshk plunge their hands back into the font, grabbing the pale wrists of Gekaryna. They rip her out from under the water.

  Thrown to the floor, ?nnywella coughs and sputters; the familiar smell of petrichor burns her nostrils as water pours from her mouth and nose, splashing on the marble floor; she places her hands beneath her and she tries to push herself up—her hands slip, she loses balance, sending her right back against cold, hard marble; she settles on crossing her arms beneath her torso, keeping her body off the cold marble below (and not wanting to humiliate herself further), and her sight returns quickly, first a blurry vision of the white veining of the marble floor; followed shortly by her peripheral, where the two priestesses squat by her sides—?ppolonia on her right, Gelshk on her left—they watch with concerned expressions; the world around ?nnywella returns to focus; she slowly raises her head—Gyrshke stands stoically before ?nnywella with her back against the second-floor balcony—if ?nnywella did not know better, she would say the High Priestess was enjoying this; she crawls over to Gyrshke, pausing occasionally to cough; her long auburn side bangs cling to her cheeks, with a few stray hairs irritating her eyes—she wants to push them away, but the thought of falling back to the cold floor convinces her otherwise; ?nnywella prostrates herself before the High Priestess, placing her hands at Gyrshke's feet. Setting her forehead against her hands, ?nnywella closes her eyes, waiting for Gyrshke to speak.

  Eue-Lysae looks down upon the sopping wet mess of a woman before her. Gekaryna had passed the rite, barely, but passed nonetheless.

  “I deem you clean of body and pure of blood. Now rise! Rise, vessel! Rise to bleed for the future; rise to show the people of Ianyan you are willing to sacrifice yourself for their eternal veneration; rise to offer Herst blood to Kaladrae once more!”

  Crossing her arms, she watches as Gekaryna, still coughing, struggles to stand.

  ?nnywella feels someone gripping her shoulders, but only the pressure, no warmth. Upon glancing over, she sees no hand.

  “Stand.” Luhnylla, softly in an incorporeal voice, encourages Gekaryna. She tugs on Gekaryna’s shoulders.

  Footnotes

  [1] A group of 5 Arch Priestesses who oversee all activities of the priestesses in Ianya from The Temple of the Second Moon.

  [2] A name exclusively used by either father or husband. Use of it by anyone besides these individuals is regarded as extremely disrespectful.

  [3] Then it shall be done.