On the night before my sister will bind herself to the coven fire, the moon is the color of blood.

“It’s turned early,” the Diviner witches murmured as they watched the blood moon rise like a welling puncture wound behind the scudding clouds. “A good omen—the Spirits must be eager to call her forth.”

If they were speaking of any other witch, I might have agreed. An Ascension is a celebration—the night every young witch waits for. When she makes her offering to the Spirits, my sister, Rhea, will receive her gift and take her place in the coven. She’ll be transformed.

But as I sneak down the deserted halls of the Sanctum in the dark, apprehension knotting my insides like a patch of fireroot, I can’t help but worry—what will Rhea be transformed into? What if the flames of the coven fire consume her, leaving nothing behind of the witch I love?

A crow calls in the night.

I pick up my pace, bare feet whispering against the stone floor. The door to Rhea’s room is slightly ajar. She should be in bed—so should I—but she’s sitting at the window. Moonlight glows red against her nightdress, as if she’s already wearing her crimson cloak. Already another person. What is she thinking about? Is she afraid? Probably not. Rhea is only ten years older than me, but she might as well be a hundred years wiser. She’s not afraid of anything.

My sister turns and spots me. We share the same white skin, black hair, and brown eyes, but that’s where the similarity ends. Where I’m all awkward angles and skinny limbs, Rhea is soft and elegant. Beautiful.