Page 2 of Iron Roses

I step forward.

I’ve been trained for this moment. Not the why—just the how. I kneel beside her, heart steady. I don’t let them see the nerves flickering behind my ribs.

My father slices a shallow line across my forearm.

Oreste uncaps the vial and pours oil onto the baby’s bare chest, tracing the same sigil in practiced motions. Then my blood is added. Just a drop. My father presses my cut above her heart.

My blood meets oil. Oil meets skin.

Then he wraps the white ribbon around our arms—hers, impossibly small; mine, already lined with muscle—and knots it. Seven times.

It’s not just a symbol. It’s a vow. One I don’t understand yet, but feel anyway.

Oreste speaks the final words, voice thick.

“Proteggila come fratello. Come spada. Come ombra.”

Protect her as a lover. As a sword. As shadow.

The flames waver. The baby blinks. The ribbon glows faintly—just for a second.

Then it’s over.

My father rises first. Oreste lingers by the child, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. Then we leave.

Outside, the night presses in, heavy and waiting.

The cars are parked just beyond the trees. Our driver lights a cigarette, keeping his eyes down. My father walks ahead, his voice sharp as always.

“You did well,” he says.

It doesn’t sound like praise. It sounds like confirmation.

He stops by the car and pulls the door open, expecting me to follow. I reach for the handle—then pause.

My wrist. Bare.

I turn slightly, enough to mask the movement as a stretch. The watch—the gold one my mother gave me—is gone. I must’ve left it in the tent when I took off my jacket.

My father’s already on the phone. Barking orders to someone. He doesn’t notice when I step away.

I cut back through the trees, quiet. My footsteps are second nature, memory built into the soles of my shoes. I know the bends of this forest better than I know my own house. We’ve used these woods for drills, for trials. For rites.

I’m almost to the tent when I hear it.

A woman sobbing through clenched teeth.

“Why her?” she cries. “Why did you use my daughter, not yours?!”

I freeze behind the trunk of a tree, breath snagging mid-step.

It’s the woman from before. The baby’s mother.

“You should’ve used your other daughter! She’s older. Why—why our child?”

Her voice fractures at the edges.

Oreste says nothing. Or I can’t hear him. Only her, breaking in pieces that no one seems willing to catch.

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