The temple was abuzz with gossip. Every priestess, acolyte, and even the maids could not stop talking about the foreign prince who had swanned into Milona and taken up residence in the city's finest residence. The grandest house in Milona was a former temple that had been converted into a villa by some wealthy nobleman who had promptly died after its reconstruction. The estate had been fought over by his two different wives and seven children before being vacated and left to crumble into a beautiful ruin, just like so many other buildings in Milona. It was all white marble and green ivy, with steps that drifted off into the ocean and gave the impression that a mermaid might wash up onto the tiles at any moment.

"I don't understand why everyone is so excited about this prince coming into town," Mari commented to Nadia. "It isn't as if there will be any chances for us to meet him. He is a prince, and unless he comes here to make sacrifices we shall never even breathe in the same air."

Nadia nodded vigorously, watching as Mari put her hair up and pinned it in place beneath the veil. Her own hair was long and heavy from never having been cut, but she had never been permitted to use pins to put it up, for fear that, somehow, the pins might injure her. Instead, she braided it every morning and finished the plait with a ribbon. It was yet another thing that separated her from the other priestesses who all wore their hair up in a bun.

"He's only a prince. What is so special about him, really? He just happens to have inherited the position from his father. If his father were a pig farmer, we would not be hearing all this talk and hubbub concerning him anyways," Nadia mused, lying back on the soft bed and sinking into the pillows. She stared up at the mosaic ceiling, which depicted spirals and a labyrinth of circular patterns that made her dizzy if she gazed at it for too long.

Mari laughed. "My thoughts precisely."

"Still, we shall have to perform more elaborate sacrifices now, because all the nobles want the prince to be present at their firstborn child's sacred rites or some other nonsense of the sort," Nadia commented, tracing the fringe on a tasselled cushion.

Her thoughts delved into her own first, sacred rites. She had been less than three years old, and her parents had taken her to the temple to have her fortunes read. They had not brought her back home after hearing her fate.

Upon her 'tis avowed,

A curse to make men cower.

Yet she shall be bestowed

Also with great power.

Should anything pierce her skin,

Should anything unnatural make her bleed,

Even if it is as small as a pin,

Ruin shall befall us, it has been agreed.

Those words had been drilled into her, every time she asked about her parents. That prophecy had been spoken over her in her infancy, which had dictated her entire life.

Matron Abigail poked her head into the room. "Five minutes until we leave for the festival procession, Mari, Nadia."

Ah, yes. The annual spring festival that involved the priestesses carrying torches to a massive pyre by the seaside, which would then be burnt to ash. She could still smell the mingled scents of fire and balsam and pine from the wood that was burned every year, to signify the death of winter and the beginning of spring. Every priestess would carry a torch and then, in order of rank, would place the torch onto the pyre. Then, when it was one great conflagration, they would chant the words that beckoned spring to come and bid winter farewell.

"Shall we go, Nadia?" Mari offered her arm.

"We shall, Mari," Nadia said with a solemn nod before they both laughed and went out.

Nadia was swathed in a white gown with silvery panels to represent the winter. Mari wore a capelet and robe of delicate green, with sprigs of embroidery that resembled flowers. Each priestess would be paired off into similar groupings that symbolized the two seasons, before parting at the pyre. Winter would toss its torch first and then Spring would do the same. The spring festival was a familiar but welcome refuge from the typical days spent offering sacrifices and early mornings at the seaside. The spring festival was the time that she felt the most normal, even if she, unlike the rest of the priestesses had to wear gloves when she took up the torch to protect her hands from splinters of wood.

"Take your places, girls," Matron Abigail said with a clap of her hands as they filed into the receiving chamber, circling around the table in the centre, where the torches were being dipped into kerosene before being lit and passed to the priestesses. "You know your ranks and orders."

"Yes, Matron," they all replied in unison.

Nadia took a deep breath, conscious of her surroundings, not letting her elbows jostle anyone or even letting a strand of her hair touch her face.

Matron Abigail smiled. "Very good. I shall bring up the rear, as always."

They all obediently nodded before taking their torches and falling into their appropriate positions to march through the city. Nadia readied herself with a sip of water, ensuring that all her clothing and hair were tucked away and unable to be whipped free by the fiercest of winds before she gripped her torch tightly. The path from the oldest temple in Milona to the pyre was a gruelling walk. One had to march uphill, all the way to the steepest cliff that overlooked the ocean before they could reach the pyre.

It was not a walk as much as a hike, with cobblestoned paths that wove in and out of the market district, residential area, and various docks, ensuring that everyone would know the time had come to witness the ceremonial torch-lighting. They would, of course, remain close to the River Ileana during their procession. Usually, the most important members of Milonan society would come to witness it--not walking by foot, of course, but on horseback, taking a gilded carriage, or being conveyed by a litter--and be waiting at the spot before any of the priestesses made it there. Everyone came to the spring festival. The poor found it was a diversion, the merchant class found it was an opportunity to mingle with nobility and hawk their wares, and the social climbers considered it a chance to see and be seen.

Matron Abigail would follow in the rear, while Matron Briar would walk in front, clanging a large gong that made their ears ache and made Nadia grateful that she would not have to walk near Matron Briar. Mari linked arms with Nadia, and both of them fell into place behind Evie and Siena, who were gossiping as usual.

"Did you hear about the prince? I hear he has a dozen horses with golden manes and he's come to Milona to find his bride," Siena whispered to Evie, while still keeping her head turned straight ahead.

The chill, damp air of early Milonan spring weighed heavy on Nadia's chest, sinking past her layers of veils and cloaks, and cooling her skin. Why would it matter what the prince was here for, anyway? It wasn't as if he was going to make a priestess his wife.

Evie scoffed. "The prince is not even from Milona! Why would he look for a foreign bride? He is from..."

"Vytia," Mari helpfully supplied. "I have heard rumours that he is Vytian."

Vytia was the mainland that encircled Milona's small island, wealthier and far more metropolitan. Their styles were more fashion-forward, their gadgets more innovative, their court more elaborate and run by a king instead of a circle of priestesses and matrons. Their cities were larger, more metropolitan, and many Milonans moved to Vytia looking for work. For the prince to be Vytian would mean he was one of the king's nine sons, born to one of his four different wives.

Evie and Siena took collective gasps at the sound of that, their blonde heads bobbing in unison. Siena didn't turn around, but her voice was carried by the wind. "No! Honestly?"

"I heard it from a reliable source," Mari said. "In fact, Nadia told me. She met the prince."

A flush heated her cheeks, not just from the flame she was holding. Nadia was certain that if they had been allowed to pivot their gazes, Evie and Siena would have viewed her with suspicion. Perhaps even skepticism. She could hear their thoughts: Nadia? She never gets into any sort of trouble or excitement! Why would it be her?

"I saw a stranger," she offered tentatively, unaccustomed to accepting an olive branch of friendship from someone other than Mari. "I don't know if I can say that it was a prince, let alone a Vytian one."

Evie's shoulders slumped, but Siena perked up, clearly glad not to be the one without information. "What did he look like? Did he have an accent?"

Nadia wracked her brain as she stepped over a puddle of some indistinguishable fluid. "He... did not have an accent. He was dressed in unseasonably warm clothes, clad in high boots and a hat. I couldn't quite see his face."

"A hat?" Evie repeated. "Who wears a hat in Milona?"

She would have shrugged if she were not arm-in-arm with Mari as well as holding a torch whose flames flickered with the wind, dangerously close to her face. "The stars above only know."

Still, her thoughts sparked to life to answer Evie's question. Vytia was to the north of Milona. Its people there might have worn a hat. Or, the Litvanians, to the northeast of Vytia, could also have been the type to wear similar garments to the stranger she had seen. Where else? There was Astroia, just to the south of Milona yet made impassable by a series of marine obstacles... But, no. That would not make sense.

They fell silent as the terrain grew steeper, panting breaths audible and thigh muscles aching. Loose sea glass and pebbles beneath their feet caused them to almost scramble for balance. One of the guards at her side--always at her side, always watching her, never letting her have a moment alone--reached out to grip her arm and ensure that she did not fall and injure herself. Yet, as always, his grasp was light enough to be certain that he did not harm her.

"Thank you," she murmured.

Ilyas nodded, falling back into a stiff posture and unreadable expression.

Finally, after what felt like hours as the priestesses passed cheering children, families waving green and white ribbons, and street vendors pushing carts of food, they reached the summit. When it came time for Nadia to add her torch to the pyre, her arms were aching and she almost dropped it before she took a deep inhale in an attempt to steady herself. The torch landed easily in the pyre, straw and wood lighting up as she resumed her procession, her green eyes watering and her throat burning from the woodsmoke.

She took a section of her veil and wrapped it more tightly about her face to block as much of the smoke as she could. Matron Abigail was giving her yearly speech, flanked by two of the most powerful businessmen in the city: a textile merchant, Orin Mercati, and a wool merchant from a farmer family, Renaldo Lake. Sometimes, when she was behaving like their tutor or a substitute mother, Nadia forgot how much power Matron Abigail wielded over Milona. But in the city of gods and temples and stars, priestesses reigned.

"Welcome, everyone, to our annual spring festival. Thank you for attending. I have no doubt that this will be a season of many blessings for everyone. I pray your harvests will be plenty, your children never hungry, and your earnings prosperous." She paused, taking a moment to consider her words. The emerald diadem Matron Abigail wore on her forehead glowed bright green and stood out against her grey mantilla, looking like a cat's eye. "I have joined forces with Mr. Mercati and Mr. Lake this year to create a contest."

Noise rippled through the gathered crowd, ranging from whispers to shouts. Her eyes itched and stung. Nadia wanted to rub them, but with gloves on and with the fear of her nails--which she filed short anyways--scratching her skin to the point of drawing blood, she did not dare.

"Whoever wins the best design for a new uniform for the priestesses of Milona shall be given a year's supply of yarn," she announced. "If you have any questions, you may direct them toward Mr. Lake or Mr. Mercati. Thank you for attending the festivities and I pray you all will enjoy yourselves."

"I hope to the stars that the new uniforms aren't ugly," Mari whispered in her ear, a knowing smile on her face.

No matter what they were, Nadia would wear the same clothes she had since birth, swaddled in yards of fabric. Still, for her friend's sake, she summoned a smile. "Me, too."

Suddenly, shouts burst through the crowd. Something was wrong with the pyre. Its pieces were crumbling, the flower-shaped structure threatening to fall directly onto the priestesses.

"Clear the way!" Matron Abigail was calling.

Panicked screams and quailing shrieks pierced her eardrums. A stampede threatened to destroy the formerly joyous occasion. Fear paralyzed Nadia, sharpening her mind but freezing her body. Hands grabbed her by the shoulders, one of her guards dragging her out of danger. Breathing heavily, she stared in horror as the place the priestesses had vacated became engulfed with flames.

Ilyas began dragging her away from the pyre, his free hand motioning for the rest of the priestesses to follow suit. Matron Abigail called to him. "Get the girls back to the temple! It will be safer for them there until we find out who has caused this mischief that could have resulted in death."