The church was ready. Dripping candles threw light through the coloured windows, the spectrum breaking red across the white paper flowers until they looked like crimson roses. The incense was thick enough to taste. Every pew sagged under bodies. The air hung heavy with collective breath and mounting tension.

Trinny watched from the pew closest to the door, squeezed between a mother with a fussing infant and an ancient woman drenched in lavender oil — masking, Trinny suspected, a smell considerably less pleasant beneath. Eyes darting to the full moon visible through the window. Fingers tapping restlessly against her knee.

Hjordis sat in the middle beside her mother, turning now and then to check on Trinny, saw the nervous tapping, eyes narrowing. Then turned back to the beautiful tableau before them all — mostly she looked at Mads, and Mads looked at her. Tomsun presided at the altar like a withered puppet gifted with string, rheumy eyes bright with anticipation. Behind him, Mads clutched a wooden statue of Goria, knuckles white around the carved curves. Sweat beaded at his temples.

Trinny's hand pressed against the hidden key in her bodice.

"Brothers and sisters," Tomsun intoned in his cracking old voice, hands raised, bald spot gleaming, the crowd quieting down. "The time has come for the sacred ritual of fruition. May Goria bless our efforts and grant us a bountiful harvest of both field and womb."

Trinny scoffed under her breath. "And may ye find the hole on this holy day, old man." No one heard her, because right then a haunting melody rose from the congregation. Women's voices wove together in harmonies that bypassed conscious thought. The five maidens in white glided forward, giddy faces struggling to appear solemn, gowns whispering against worn stone. Beautiful, Trinny thought. Doomed and completely wasted on this field.

Her eyes darted to the moon again. Still full. The old text she'd had that scholar decipher had to be correct. The old scholar's death would've been an utter waste were the calculations wrong. Her palms grew slick with sweat, the air harder to breathe. Her armpits had soaked through the chemise. One flattering side effect of this body.

"Behold Goria's chosen daughters," Tomsun proclaimed, gaze lingering a beat too long on each maiden with the subtlety of a starving wolf. "Each symbolising the purity of our fair lands. With unwavering faith, shall three of ye receive the goddess's most sacred blessings."

"Only three?" Someone said, aghast. "It's usually four."

Trinny couldn't help herself. Leaning forward she murmured to the ladies before her, "I don't think his old heart could handle another one, dear. Might keel over mid-blessing, and wouldn't that be a sight."

Several women gasped. Heads turned. Her voice had carried. Hjordis's head snapped around, glare hot enough to melt iron. Trinny backed up, hands clasped, feigning innocent.

Then the Helmbane lass stormed past and out of the building, the scattered paper flowers rustling in her wake like a storm current had passed through. Mads reacted hard — a half-muffled word, almost dropping the heavy statue. Tomsun noticed nothing but the adorned maidens before him.

Strange, Trinny thought. She remained standing still as a candle, hands clutched over her stomach, looking at the moon again. Was it starting yet? Was that the faintest darkening at the moon's edge? No. Just clouds scudding across crimson light.

Tomsun droned on. "Now, my chosen daughters, 'tis time for the ultimate offering." His voice dripped with anticipation thick as honey. "The act of giving one's body is the most sacred part of our community, the cornerstone of the Magistracy's power, the pride of being born woman."

He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if making the choice between the five with his nostrils. Trinny leaned in, fascinated, forgetting for a second to check the moon.

Tomsun opened his eyes, gleaming with satisfaction. "The goddess has spoken."

The congregation erupted in pious celebration. Tomsun, grinning like a cat presented with a full bowl, laid his hand on the shoulders of three maidens — the one with curves that defied village rations and two willowy girls who giggled nervously. They followed him toward a side chamber as if they'd just won the world's most questionable lottery. Once they were gone, the women began chatting excitedly, filling the space with maddening chatter. Mads pulled away his robes, set aside the statue, jaw set strangely. Avoided eye contact and hurried down the aisle, met eyes with Trinny, and went outside after Hjordis. Trinny clocked it — a camaraderie that wasn't fooling anyone, least not her perceptive eyes.

Thank the Nine that was over. Trinny looked at the moon, darker red now, and headed outside.

Trinny joined the women in matching green shawls, towering above their chattering heads. A crone drunk on communion wine pulled her along toward the roasting venison, butchered parts skewered and rotating over a great bonfire. A woman with apple cheeks was tasked with handing out cuts, women and some boys standing in line exchanging jibes with each other.

Trinny took a clay plate, received a fine cut of the rear end.

"Saved this one for ye Trinny, since it's yer spoil and all." The woman said it lovingly. "Might think it'll make ye shut up."

"Oh, it takes more than that to make me shut up."

"We're thankful for your help nonetheless. Goria be blessed." She made the sign.

Trinny's stomach clenched at the holy words, then lurched as the woman had the nerve to add the holy gesture too. The smile turned forced. Trinny spun around, pressed both hands to her face a moment, wrestled the grin back into place, and found a table. Sat there not touching the food. Looked at the moon. The lurching in her stomach hadn't settled — something was shifting in her, some internal rearrangement she didn't have good words for. Not hunger. She hadn't had that bodily urge in twenty years exactly. She looked around. No Helmbane lass in sight. No Mads either.

"Yer awfully quiet." Dora Tallahand sat down, smug grin, ladling peeled potatoes onto her plate, gravy next. "Our fruition ritual truly that strange to a city lass like yourself?"

"Well, quite." Trinny attempted a grin, looking up at the moon, larger now surely. "Reckon some men think planting seed in many fields earns them more land. In truth it leads only to more mouths, and eventually more graves."

Dora shook her head, a sad look following Garrett holding his plate, talking happily to his friend about some prank they were planning on old Tomsun. Trinny looked closer. Tomsun's features sat in the boy's face. In all the children's faces. Siblings, all of them. Alive, all thanks to one man's sick invention. Dora returned to Trinny with a smile, hand touching hers. "Goria bless ye, Trinny. Ye've a good heart, I ken that. That's just how we survive, and we've all come to peace with it."

Trinny shivered. Another holy arrow, straight to the gut. She burped loudly, looked at the moon — no longer perfectly round, a dark edge creeping in at the rim. "Excuse me." She pulled her hand back and rose, shawl going askew. Adjusted it, teeth set.

She pressed through the celebrating crowd, nearly fell over Catrain Helmbane who'd propped herself against a tent pole like it was her only friend in the world. A wine bottle dangled from the woman's fingers.

"Fye, Mother Helmbane," Trinny called, forcing lightness into her voice. "You seen that spitfire daughter of yours? Thought I might offer an apology from before."

Catrain turned, eyes foggy as a morning bog. "Trinny," she slurred, with the gravity of the deeply drunk. "Ye're right, ye ken. We are cattle." She took a pull that would shame a sailor. "Wasn't always like this..."

Fascinating as that tidbit was, Trinny had already spotted Hjordis in the distance, methodically destroying what appeared to be an innocent tree stump. She approached the way one approached a wounded bear — cautiously, ready to dodge.

The reek of wine hit her before Hjordis turned.

Wonderful. An armed, angry, drunk Helmbane. Just what this disaster needed.

"Hey there, firecracker," Trinny tried, keeping her tone bright. "Why don't we head back to the table? I hear there's dessert. And more wine, if you're feeling adventurous."

Hjordis whirled. "'Tis not fair. 'Tis not a life fit for Oskar Helmbane's daughter."

Trinny's mind raced. Looked at the moon, then at the Helmbane house on the hill behind Hjordis, then back at the drunk girl. "Look, I'm sorry about what I said earlier. The whole Tomsun business. Where I come from, the, uh, procreation part is done with a dash more spontaneity, you know?"

She reached out to pat Hjordis's arm. The girl jerked away as if the touch carried plague. "You're a whore then?" The words cut sharp despite the alcohol blur. "Cattle or whores. Those are the choices for us lasses, aren't they?"

Trinny opened her mouth. Nothing came out. She closed it again. This, apparently, was the thing that finally did it.

Before she could cobble together a response, Hjordis's bleary gaze found her mother. "Mam! Not again!" She stumbled toward Catrain, attempting to prop her up while delivering a scolding that lost its effectiveness with every hiccup.

Trinny watched Hjordis drag her mother homeward, each step taking them closer to that house, that sword, her only chance. Should she tackle them? Set something on fire? Start a riot?

"Trinny, dear!" A plump woman materialised at her elbow, breath sweet with mead. "Your paper flowers were simply magical! You must teach us—"

"Alas, it's a family secret. One I simply can't—"

Then silence fell like a curtain dropped from a great height.

Every head turned skyward. Trinny lifted her head, towering above everyone else on the dark field.

The shadow had begun its creeping advance across the moon's face, visible now to all of them. The dancing stopped. Hands rose toward the sky. Some made the sign of the Nine. The Helmbanes stopped too — Catrain pointed, laughing. Hjordis stood very still.

Trinny's heart performed its own theatrical solo. This was it. Finally.

She spun around, fixed her eyes on the Helmbane house on the hill, and legged it.

But then a shriek shattered the moment — raw and terrified, slicing through the festive air. Trinny whirled. One of Tomsun's chosen girls stumbled from the church, her white dress matching her corpse-pale face.

"Tomsun!" she wailed, voice cracking open. "He's collapsed! He's not breathing!"

Butter my backside and call me a biscuit. This was not part of the plan. But chaos — that old friend — had arrived to dance.

The crowd surged toward the church. Hjordis froze mid-step, then dumped her mother unceremoniously on a bench and sprinted off to find Mads.

Trinny dove into shadow, pressing against rough cottage walls. The eclipse deepened, everything darkening, and with it came the strangest sensation — a peeling away, like old paint flaking from wood. Her borrowed skirt hung looser. The shawl slipped from narrowing shoulders. She glanced down at her hands in the reddening light and nearly yelped.

Gone were Trinny's plump fingers. In their place stretched long, lean digits, knuckles prominent beneath taut skin. The green skirt that had pinched now threatened to slide off entirely. Even the shawl mocked her, drooping over a frame it no longer fit.

Not now. Just a little longer.

She spotted Hjordis and Mads searching the crowd, his height giving advantage as he scanned over heads. Time bled away with each heartbeat.

Keeping to shadow, Trinny — Tryggve now, undeniably — crept toward the Helmbane house. The paper key trembled in unfamiliar fingers. The lock clicked. Inside, darkness pressed close until — there. Above the hearth, Oskar's sword gleamed with its own cold light, the dried berry in the empty eye socket staring down like an accusation.

Yes, yes, I know, Tryggve thought, lunging for the blade. But needs must.

Cold leather strips met his palm, moulded once to Oskar's broader hand, then readjusted — refitted the grip for narrower fingers. He clutched the sword to his chest, feeling the weight of years, of every bad decision he'd taken, of every chance he hadn't taken. He sat down on the Helmbane kitchen floor, clothes falling loose like a tent over his slimmer frame. Tore away the shawl. Pulled off the bodice. 

A thread of red light slipped through the window, casting the kitchen in shades of blood and old wine. No time for poetry, Trig. Get a grip. Then nothing — just the guttering amber of the hearth coals. 

The full eclipse. That was his cue.

He raised the sword high, turned its point toward his chest. At this moment it was just metal. Once the moonlight returned, once the eclipse released the blade's power back into itself—

He wasn't entirely sure anymore whether it would be enough. Or simply too much. Whether this would be the last thought he'd ever have or the first thought of a man finally free.

"Come on Trig,” he muttered, willing his hands steady. "Grow some balls. Before—"

The door exploded inward.

Hjordis and Mads stood silhouetted against the distant feast-light, faces caught between horror and determination.

"Stop!" Hjordis screamed, voice stripped raw. "Trinny, don't!"

The blond Zyrellian on the floor looked up from his green skirt — desperation plain in his face, sword point still pressed to his chest.

Fye.

To them he wasn't Trinny anymore. The revelation moved across their faces in the dark — disgust first, then something harder, more fixed. No blood spilled on Shiin's holy day. Not if they had anything to do with it.

Tryggve moved the same moment Mads did.