Mydaiel spent the rest of the afternoon under the less than tender ministrations of her sisters. Her skin had been scrubbed free of any trace of blood, though still glowed an irritated pink. She bit the inside of her lip and shared ahead. She did not move, despite the raging urge to fidget and yelp.

You are not a child!

Charmeine’s breath tickled her as she leaned close to run a bristled brush over the tiny feathers sprouted from the undersides of Mydaiel’s breasts. They were miniscule, barely a downy fuzz along her flesh, and the only part still dyed a vibrant shade of ruby. She was still vaguely disappointed she hadn’t gotten the chance to sample a little of the liquid.

Such a waste.

Sarielle was behind her. Though she could not see her, Mydaiel could picture the pursed lips and stoic expression her eldest sister almost always wore. Currently, her fingers were tangled in Mydaiel’s curly hair, weaving the strands into a braid so tight her roots pulled. Sarielle then wrapped the braid around in a coil that she pinned down atop Mydaiel’s head.

“I appreciate the gesture, but I can get myself ready,” she protested. There was little conviction in the argument. She would never disagree with either of them. She had rarely been doted on like this, however, and was slightly uncomfortable with all the attention she was receiving. A lack of independence was frowned upon, and she had learned very quickly in her youth to do things for herself or face consequences.

“Hush.” Sarielle’s reply was stern, but softly spoken. On instinct, Mydaiel’s lips pressed together and her gaze averted downwards, though she could not have met Sarielle’s eyes regardless. When an elder of one’s brood gave a command, it was to be obeyed. Casting her gaze down brought her to meet line of sight with Charmeine, who’s lips pulled into a sly grin, her tongue poking between ivory teeth. The middle sibling winked and heat rose in Mydaiel’s cheeks. Sarielle’s authority would always stand, but Mydaiel was no longer a fledgling and had a right to her own choices and actions now.

Old habits really do die hard. Passive, submissive follower.

Sarielle’s hands were no longer in her hair and her sister’s clipped tone startled her. “Turn.”

As Mydaiel twisted to obey the command, her breath hitched in her chest. When a fledgling became fully initiated into the ranks of Avalon, it was their clutch that worked on a piece for the celebration after. Sarielle’s clutch was small, with her blood sister and Mydaiel. She had not expected much from them, perhaps a small token. Instead, Sarielle stood holding a gown. The fabric pooled on the floor, a white silk with gold stitching. The long sleeves were a woven lacework with a pointed tip at the end of each sleeve. A twinkling opal sat embedded on each. The lattice work looked painstaking, with tiny feathers, suns, and crescent slivers of moon embroidered into the piece. The waist cinched and the neckline dipped, but would reveal very little.

The details were gorgeous and precise. Immense care went into it. But they did not draw Mydaiel’s eyes for long. Feathers dangled from the sleeves of the dress, their lengths coated halfway in dried, preserved blood. It glistened with a ruby sheen coating the petrified follicles long the feather shafts. They were not tail feathers, nor the downy fluff along the rest of the body. The long, curved feathers with pointed tips came from the wing.

At first, she did not understand. The feathers ran down to the elbow, attached with tiny golden hooks. The hooks continued down the rest of the sleeve. She took a deep breath. They were clearly intended for her to add to them over time. Her lip wavered, but she bit hard against the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay.

Family. I am the continuation of a legacy. Wanted.

She could have fallen to her knees and wept then, for it was her one true want, and her worst fear to be denied it. Sarielle and Charmeine were not just sisters, but her sisters. Well and truly.

“A feather for every first kill of the year,” Charmeine explained.

“Every year since you were placed with us,” Sarielle added.

The gift was perfect. Beyond anything she could have asked for or ever deserved. Wing feathers were precious. They were a gift of Avalon. Granted flight, beauty, and freedom, and they were a crucial element to the hunt. And they did not pluck easily. That Charmeine and Sarielle would pull so many spoke volumes for how deeply they wanted her in their clutch.

She dipped her head at her older siblings. “Thank you. This must have taken far too much time and effort.” She reached and gently took the gown into her hands, marveling at the feel. The back of the down was open down nearly to the waist, and it looked sized to her impeccably.

As she stepped into it, Charmeine moved behind her to help pull the sleeves into place and adjust the fabric as it enveloped Mydaiel’s body. “It took no less effort than it was worth. Than you are worth,” she murmured.

“Charmeine speaks truth, Mydaiel. You have so much potential and we would be lesser without you. You are worth every feather and more, and I know come the hunt, you will show all the ability we see within. You will make Avalon proud,” Sarielle’s tone was solemn, but her wide eyes spoke volumes of emotion she always held back and Mydaiel was flooded with the warmth of everything else left unsaid in her elder’s irises.

When Sarielle’s hand lifted, Mydaiel leaned her cheek into it and sighed softly. “I will give everything I have,” she promised, in part to her sister and to herself. There was nothing she would not give for Avalon and all that lived there.

Sarielle’s other hand raised and she gripped either side of Mydaiel’s face and pressed her lips to her brow. Her warm breath lingered for a moment. “You are ready, little one,” she purred. Mydaiel closed her eyes and hummed in response. If it were anyone else, she may have taken offense, but Sarielle meant none. To her, Mydaiel and Charmeine probably were small and in need of guidance. It was merely a gesture of care and affection. “It is time.”

The light and chatter from the banquet spilled out into the halls. Mydaiel wrung her fingers against the folds of her dress. She hoped neither sister flanking her sides would notice. It was silly to fear a celebration, and yet her heart drummed steadily to a frantic beat as her anxiety spiked. Until now, she had never been welcomed to feasts. She had dined only with other fledglings, her clutch in private, or alone. She was one of them now, but she still felt a youth trespassing where she ought not to be.

As they stepped together through the arch doorway, Mydaiel shoved her worries down deep to be worried about later, when she was not at risk of making a fresh fool of herself. The banquet hall was a feast for the eyes. The walls were blocks of carved soapstone, white with grey and brown veins swirled throughout. Long rows of marble benches stretched alongside four massive tables. Three ran in columns spaced about eight feet apart, while the fourth was at the far end, a head table of sorts. Mydaiel easily picked out a few of the high council elders seated there, and many of the other places along the tables were taken as well. There was a low chatter building over the crowd as various quiet conversations took place.

When Mydaiel, flanked by her sisters, entered the room properly, one of the council elders stood. Astarte. Her gray eyes were slightly narrowed, her lips pursed, though Mydaiel knew that was always the case, the woman wasn’t specifically displeased.

As soon as she stood, a hush fell over the crowds and heads turned. Suddenly Mydaiel and her clutch were the center of attention and it took all her willpower to stand still and straight, rather than bow her head and shuffle under their collective gazes.

“We are joined by the newest of our ranks tonight,” Astarte began, her gruff voice magnifying over the silence. “Mydaiel, your sisterhood has waited patiently for you. As have your brethren.”

At the elder’s words, Mydaiel glanced around without moving her head. There were males at the tables, dotted among the ranks. She’d seen them before, in passing, but never spoken to one. They weren’t trained together as children and had different tasks on the hunt, but they flew as one flock when the time came.

“You have one final rite to pass,” Astarte continued, which surprised Mydaiel. There was more?

The bloodbath was really the last formal rite that was discussed with fledglings. When she was very small, she used to pester her sister with endless inquiries and musings about the inner sanctum, the hunts, the sisterhood. They had been very tight lipped about it all, merely telling her that she would know in time. As she grew, she ceased asking questions, having accepted that answer, but now wondered if she should have pressed them again for details. She felt dreadfully unprepared and it sent a prickle of nerves down her spine, though she remained still and attentive. Astarte was still speaking, though no longer to her.

“Sarielle.” Mydaiel watched her eldest sibling step forward. Sarielle’s chin was lifted, her posture like a pillar, shoulders back. Her silk gown was also open down the back, and slit up one leg. Mydaiel could see the tips of her long tail feathers peeking out from beneath the calf length gown. There was a quiet envy flickering in the pit of Mydaiel’s gut. She admired her sister’s calm confidence and sense of duty. Sarielle would do anything for Avalon.

Mydaiel truly wished to someday carry herself the same way, knowing fully what her place was, and thriving in it.

Could have that already if you weren’t such a coward. Foolish child.

Sarielle sunk to one knee, fingertips bracing against the floor for balance, the other arm pressed at her chest. Despite the loss of height, Sarielle still felt impressively tall. Her presence carried.

“Sarielle,” Astarte called again. “Mydaiel has completed her training in the council’s eyes, excelled in her exams and proven herself worthy in the ceremonies and ways of our people. Is she ready for the final step?”

The silence that stretched in the milliseconds after the inquiry were a worse sensation than Mydaiel imagined standing on white hot needles would be. She resisted the desire to shift nervously. It felt like a hesitation. Why would Sarielle hesitate? Surely her sister did not mean to hold her back, not after the effort the two seemed to put into Mydaiel’s ceremonial gown.

Her anxiety was running away from her again and she forced herself to rein it in on a tight chain. Regarding Sarielle more closely, Mydaiel could see in the relaxed position of her shoulder blades, the angle she held her chin; there was no hesitation in Sarielle’s answer. “She is,” her sister responded with a curt bob of her chin.

Astarte remained silent and the moment seemed to stretch long enough for Mydaiel to study every frown line, every gentle wrinkle and crevasse of the elder’s skin. Astarte’s lips seemed to pull thinner and Mydaiel’s heart cinched at the idea her passing would displease the priestess. But Astarte’s features only hardened for a few seconds before they softened again, tension evaporating like water on hot stone.

“Then it is time.” When she spoke again, the words filled the room. “You know what is to be done.”

Sarielle’s head dipped into a bow, the fingers previously only touching the floor then pressed flat as her braced. Mydaiel did not move, did not speak, though she wanted to rush to Sarielle and ensure she was alright. Beside her, Charmeine shuffled her weight discretely, and her shoulder bumped Mydaiel’s. “When she rises, kneel,” the middle sibling murmured. “Do not speak, do not break eye contact, just as you are doing now. Sarielle will guide you.”

Mydaiel wanted to press her for more, but Charmeine moved away, silently stepping off to the side and joining one of the others on a long bench.

Sarielle grunted softly and Mydaiel was certain only her proximity allowed her to notice it. Then, like a miracle at work, Sarielle’s wings erupted from her back. Mydaiel watched with rapt fascination as the feathery limbs pushed free of the flesh, the bones merged with Sarielle’s shoulder blades. They took the majority of her upper back, sleek, massive, and powerful. They flapped once, stirring the air, and then folded to settle against Sarielle’s spine. The primaries trailed on the floor while the wing bone arced high over her shoulders. The rippling feathers were not white. Mydaiel knew the undersides were, though she could not see them, but the backs were vivid and as assorted as gemstones. Sarielle’s were a slate gray, with flecks of earthy browns, golds, and ruby tipped. The shades were subtle, but they stole Mydaiel’s breath from her lungs. It was hard not to lust after the appendages she so desperately wanted herself.

Twin thin rivets of blood rolled down the grove of Sarielle’s back, but her sister barely seemed to acknowledge any discomfort may have stemmed from the sprout of her wings.

Keeping to Charmeine’s advice, as soon as Sarielle rose and turned to face her, Mydaiel sunk down to her knees. She did not break eye contact, though she desperately wanted to. Sarielle’s face was expressionless, a sea washed stone as she strode forward with purpose. It sparked nerves deep in her belly; her sister was stoic, but never this blank.

Her concerns weren’t helped when Astarte spoke up again. “Bring forth the blades.”

A shiver ran down Mydaiel’s spine. It was not so much the proclamation that unnerved her. She was not afraid of a weapon or the risk of pain or injury, but the silent somber atmosphere of the room made it difficult not to feel concern about what was coming.

The blades that were presented were thin, curved daggers, longer than normal with wide hilts wrapped in aged leather. Gemstones were embedded in the metal, a large blood ruby in the center of the width, positioned up closer to the hilt, for each blade. There were ancient runes carved down the lengths, but she could not read them. These were ancient artifacts, from Avalon’s birth. A language that her people could no longer read. The woman who had brought them in had knelt down and held the chest up on a cushion towards Sarielle. Her face was angular, eyes downcast, and her head was wrapped in a silver shawl, a plain silver-gray gown covering her body. This was not a warrior, but rather a scholar. Those who studied Avalon history and legend, who tended the libraries and fields. Scholars and high priests could come and go from Avalon’s core, but ultimately, the warriors held the greater respect, as Avalon’s line of defense and Earth’s liberators.

Sarielle showed no hesitation as she lifted the blades from the chest. The scholar dipped her head and moved back. There was silence in the room. Whatever was set to happen, it was clearly meant for just the two of them. No one else was to be involved.

Mydaiel took a breath as she fought to wrangle her tangled emotions. Emotion had no place in ceremony after all, where one had to be as calm and tranquil as Avalon itself. As she struggled, Mydaiel felt one of Sarielle’s soft, warm wingtips brush over her arm. It startled her, and while she didn’t move to look, she relaxed. Sarielle would not have made contact unintentionally, but it was subtle enough to go unnoticed by the masses. It was a tender reassurance and Mydaiel held fast to it.

She could feel the butt of the dagger hilt pressing against her skull as Sarielle placed one hand on her head and began to apply pressure. “Bow your head,” she murmured so softly Mydaiel had to strain to hear. She obeyed instantly, tucking her chin. “Further, Mydaiel. You have to bend; chin to chest.”

Once more, Mydaiel did not question her sister, but craned her neck into the awkward position so her back was arched above her. She shivered, not liking where this was leading. She had never seen any scars on Sarielle or Charmeine’s backs to indicate some sort of carving ritual, but that meant little in the moment. The first kiss of the metal against her back was cold and delicate, but lasted only a second before the blades began to sink in unison into the middle of her shoulder blades.

A burning pain was immediate as they dug deeper, but Mydaiel clenched her jaw and said nothing. It stung a bit, to know it was Sarielle wielding the blades. It would have been much easier if it was someone clinical that she did not know well. This felt a little closer to betrayal as the pain grew worse, like her very core was being set ablaze. Did she carve into Charmeine as well, when her sister was initiated?

Mydaiel decided it was cruel to have a member of the clutch do this, but she dared not move or protest. Sarielle, for her part, was delicate with the motions. The blades did not jerk or rip and her sister never once hesitated, pulling them smoothly down the length of Mydaiel’s back.

As hot blood began to flow, Mydaiel felt sorry that it was going to stain the dress they’d made, though there was nothing she could do about it. The blades were molten against her back, fresh from a forge. Were they glowing? Something was shining in the corners of her eyes, and she was beginning to feel woozy from the agony ripping through her nerves, though she forced her body to remain physically relaxed to make Sarielle’s job easier.

The daggers carved down to the small of her back, nearly to the hem of the dress she was wearing, that was open backed and she now guessed she understood why. The blades were taken away and then Sarielle’s hand was pressed flat to her spine, dead center between her shoulder blades.

“Mydaiel.” Sarielle’s voice sounded odd, it echoed as if far away and something inside Mydaiel constricted. “Nephilim of Avalon,” she continued, and Mydaiel felt that grip within tighten further; it was difficult to breathe now. As a species, her people were known as the Nephilim, but she knew that the term did not stir this sort of feeling. Sarielle was certainly doing something to her, however, and it felt far from natural.

She heard Sarielle take a breath behind her, felt her sister’s hand on her flesh as she pressed her fingers deeper against the skin. “I summon thee.”

The instant the words left Sarielle’s lips, pain exploded in Mydaiel’s skull. She gasped, unable to bite it back, as angry spots swarmed her vision. It felt as though someone had reached into her and was yanking out everything inside. If there was not some sort of unseen force keeping her glued to Sarielle, she would have toppled over. Blinded and unable to breathe, Mydaiel’s senses screamed for it to end, anything was better than the unending waves crashing over her. A strangled noise ripped from her throat as the crescendo peaked, and then everything crashed and the silence was heavenly.

She found herself letting go and the tight painful coil in her gut unfurled. Something deep inside just let go with a whispering sigh. Feathers brushed her bare skin and a new strength flooded her; it was wild and fresh. The air around her stirred as the new appendages flapped spastically, and she felt Sarielle’s free hand on her. Her sister’s fingers tightened on the new limp, gripped it tightly and forced it back into a folded position. The discomfort brought Mydaiel back to her senses and while the wings did stir the air once more, she regained control. The new instincts pumping to her brain had her shuffling them and folding them to her back.

Her chest was heaving and the aftershocks were still rippling through her senses, but a massive grin stretched across her face. Her head was bowed, so no one would see and she allowed herself a moment to bask in the sensations of having wings. She could feel every feather, still ruffled and buzzing with the experience.

“Mydaiel,” Sarielle spoke again and Mydaiel jumped at the sound. For a brief moment, she had forgotten that the room was full. “Rise,” Sarielle continued. “Rise as winged death, a warrior of Avalon; as one of us.”

Mydaiel rose shakily and her wings half extended. She felt both lighter and heavier at the same time, and her balance was off; it would take some getting used to. Forgetting propriety and poise, Mydaiel spun on her heel and threw her arms around Sarielle, squeezing tightly. “Thank you,” she purred, her throat tightening. At first, the ceremony had felt such a betrayal, but this was a gift far more precious than Mydaiel could have ever asked for. She had always strove to be the best she could and one day join the ranks like her sisters, but the wings were always so foreign and magical a concept, part of her had never truly believed she would ever have them.

Sarielle was stiff for a moment, then her arms came up and she squeezed Mydaiel back. “You have earned this,” she murmured. “Now release me and spread your wings. Let everyone see you as you are now.”

Feeling a little reluctant, Mydaiel obeyed the instruction and turned back to face the head table. Her wings still felt a little wonky and she nearly whacked Sarielle in the face as she extended them. Out the corners of her eyes, she could see the brilliant white down on the insides of the limbs and her heart fluttered once more. Testing them out, she tilted them forward to show the backs and give herself a look. More creamy white feathers stretched down the backs, streaked with gold and silver tips. The flight feathers had a faint rouge tinge and black edges, but white and gold stood prominent along the wings.

There were murmurs of approval among the table occupants and Mydaiel felt ready to melt. The elders said nothing, but dipped their heads in her direction. Astarte’s expression did not change, but when she raised a goblet at Mydaiel, she knew she had passed all necessary tests.

When Sarielle’s feather tips brushed her arm, Mydaiel turned to see her sister’s soft smile. Sarielle jerked her head slightly to where Charmeine was already sitting, beaming at them both. Mydaiel slid onto the chilled marble bench, flanked by her clutch. Charmeine was on her instantly, running her fingers through Mydaiel’s feathers. “Hurts, huh? You held up better than I did. I actually screamed. A soft gasp is highly respectable,” she said.

Mydaiel blushed and shrugged, her wings bobbing as she did, but did not comment. Instead, she turned to Sarielle and finally posed one of the two questions weighing her tongue down. “How did you do that?” she inquired. “The way you spoke….when you said my name it was like there were rocks in my chest, I could not breathe.”

Sarielle blinked slowly and did not respond immediately, though her features stiffened until her expression was stony. “From now on, Mydaiel, it is crucial that you remember that feeling. I can call on that ability when in hunt form, because I am head of clutch, but it is not widespread for us. Your Avalon given name is linked to your soul, it holds power over you and is rarely used. Should those of Earth learn it, it would be your end, you understand? I used it only to call your wings.”

Mydaiel nodded, accepting the words for their value. “Good thing there is little reason to chat with those on Earth.”

Sarielle smirked then and nodded. “Indeed. You have another question. You are squirming like you used to in your youth. Speak, Mydaiel, you are equal now to us.”

Mydaiel’s blush deepened. “Forgive if I overstep, but you cut my wings free and Charmeine’s as well,” Mydaiel trailed off and she saw Charmeine nod out the corner of her eye. Relief flooded her at that, she had been worried she may have been wrong. “Who stood behind you when you were initiated? Why is ours so small a clutch?”

Sarielle’s arm lifted, her fingers tangled in Mydaiel’s hair and drew her head close until their foreheads touched. “No one,” Sarielle responded. “I never knelt for the blades. No clutch head has. My wings burst from my back in my youth; I was taken and indoctrinated in the inner sanctum and trained by the elders directly.” Mydaiel winced at the implications there. No wonder Sarielle was so stoic. “When Charmeine began her studies, she was separated from our birth clutch and transferred. They decided that it would be easier if I had someone with blood by my side, since I was separated so young. And then you came along; they were going to put you with another clutch, one larger, with a more experienced head, but I requested the chance.”

Mydaiel frowned. She had never heard much of anything about her placement; after all, she had never had any reason to question it. “You asked for me? Why?”

Sarielle dipped her head in confirmation. “I saw inner potential.”

Mydaiel longed to question her further, but Sarielle’s head had already turned in response to the hall doors opening. Food handlers were making their way into the gallery, laden with the contents of the night’s meal. The inquiries would have to wait; the feast was beginning.