I got caught.
Of course I did.
One moment I was the Queen of the Night Raid, high on victory buns and pilfered stout, the next I was tangled in someone's forgotten tent rope like a drunk deer in festival bunting. Rolled. Slammed. Tackled by at least three very enthusiastic Sisters who clearly missed their calling as professional wrestlers.
Did I scream? No.
Did I bite? Absolutely.
Did I win? Not even close.
Now it's dawn.
And we're naked.
Publicly.
Two of us.
Stripped, tied, and dangling like particularly indecent wind chimes from a punishment pole at the center of the camp.
Arms lashed above our heads with ceremonial red cord — the scratchy kind.
Toes just barely touching the packed dirt.
Backs arched, dignity in exile.
Morning breeze? Unwelcome.
Loma is beside me, shivering and whispering, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to— I just— I panicked—"
"You're a traitor," I hiss. "With royal lineage in ratting, apparently."
She sniffles. Quietly. Because even she knows she deserves this. I don't even look at her. I'm too busy regretting every life choice that led to me swinging nude at sunrise like some cautionary festival ornament.
There's chanting now.
Of course there is.
There's always chanting.
Somewhere behind us, a line of initiates is doing the whole "Flesh is duty" business again like it's going to summon virtue from the dust. Honestly, I've started hearing that line in my dreams. Usually right before someone throws a bucket at me.
Then comes the sermon.
Because humiliation isn't real unless it comes with a full dramatic monologue from someone wearing beads and conviction.
The Sister in charge of re-education — I don't even know her name, but she smells like myrrh and regret — steps forward, voice slow and syrupy.
"This is what happens," she intones, "when sisters let the hunger of the flesh override the discipline of the spirit. When appetites eclipse obedience."
I roll my eyes.
She continues, of course. "Food is fuel. Not indulgence. Alcohol is distraction. Not reward. And the camp is sacred — not a den of vice."
She has a scroll. She's unrolling it. There's going to be scripture. This is getting worse.
Behind her, a small group of Sisters gathers — whispering, judging, probably betting which one of us will faint first. Spoiler: it's not going to be me. I've passed out in worse positions. You don't grow up in Seebulba without learning to sleep tied to something.
But I am worried.
Because she hasn't announced the punishment yet.
And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that when they take this long to get to the point… the point is sharp, humiliating, and probably crawling.
Loma is quivering so hard the pole is shaking with her.
"They're going to whip us," she whispers, voice cracking like thin ice. "They're going to flay us alive— Saya, they'll pile up kindling and set us alight— I've heard stories—"
"Shut. Up."
I hiss it through clenched teeth, twisting just enough to glare at her.
"You're scaring me, and I'm supposed to be the reckless one."
She sniffles. "But what if they—"
"Loma. If they wanted to burn us, they wouldn't have bothered with all the chanting. Burning is a first-thing-in-the-morning sort of punishment."
That does not calm her. At all.
The Sister with the sermon scroll drones on about indulgence, corruption, discipline of the flesh, weakness of will, blah blah blah. I catch maybe every tenth word because I'm too busy trying to keep my toes from cramping and my pride from dying.
Then something new enters the scene.
A second Sister steps forward, carrying—
A clay pot.
She holds it like it's holy. Like it belongs on an altar.
I frown.
"What in the nine sweaty hells is that?" I mutter.
Loma squeaks. "It's the ashes jar. Oh gods, it's the ashes jar— they'll smear us— they'll—"
"It's a pot, Loma, not a funeral," I snap. "Stop narrating your own doom."
The Sister tilts it forward, and for a heartbeat, I catch the glimmer of something golden inside.
Is that—?
She dips her fingers in.
Comes out dripping.
Honey.
Thick, gleaming, slow-moving honey.
"Wha—what the—" I try to shift back, but the ropes pull tight and my toes scrape uselessly at the dirt. "What is this? Breakfast punishment?"
Loma lets out a tiny, horrified sob. "They're going to glaze us."
"Glaze?" I sputter. "We're not pastries, what are you—"
The Sister lifts her honey-slicked hand with ceremonial precision.
The sermon Sister continues, voice swelling with righteous grandeur:
"When desire rules the mind, the body becomes soft. Sticky. Vulnerable to corruption. Thus: let the lesson be lived upon the flesh."
Sticky?
Vulnerable?
No. No, no— I do not like where this is going.
The honey hand approaches my shoulder.
I flinch.
Rope bites.
Toes slip.
"Oh come on—"
A warm, viscous stripe trickles down my arm.
Across my ribs.
Along my spine.
Every hair on my body stands at attention like it's preparing for war.
"Gods," I gasp. "This is—this is worse than whipping. I'd rather be whipped. Whip me! Please! I'll hold still—"
Loma cries out as honey drips into her hair. "Saya, I can't— I CAN'T— they're going to feed us to something—"
"Would you shut up—"
The sermon peaks.
The Sisters form a circle.
And then—
A small wooden crate is brought forward.
Vent holes.
Scratching inside.
My stomach drops.
No.
No, no—
I can guess.
The lid opens.
Black, writhing, sugar-hungry movement spills across the rim.
Ants.
An entire colony's worth.
The Sister lifts the crate.
Solemn. Ceremonial.
"Let the lesson begin."
Oh gods.
Oh fuck.
Oh fuck.
They start at the toes.
Tiny, barely-there legs brushing against the skin. Curious. Hesitant.
And then more of them.
Hundreds. Maybe thousands. A living tide of relentless little feet crawling up my arches, between my toes, around my ankles. It's not pain. Not yet. But it's something worse in its own quiet, squirming way.
Tickle.
Itch.
Bite.
"Agh—! Fucking hellspawn," I snap, jerking in place. Ropes hold. Skin stretches. Ants don't care.
They march on, undeterred, up the backs of my calves. A few bold ones breach my thighs. One enters an unholy zone I'd rather not describe.
I hear Loma squeal beside me, high-pitched and breathy. "Ooooh gods they're— they're in my hair! They're in my—oh gods oh gods—"
"They're on my everything, you privileged pastry!" I growl, trying to crane my neck enough to blow air at the incoming swarm. No good. Sticky skin. Braids like ant highways. Honey in my ears now.
Somewhere, the Sisterhood laughs.
A light, delighted, sisterly laugh. The kind you hear at festivals, just with a bit more schadenfreude.
And then come the bites. Little stings. Not deep. Not dangerous. But persistent. Relentless. Itchy. Hot.
I flinch again.
They climb past my hips now. Across my ribs. Around the curves of me I generally reserve for very different kinds of attention.
Loma hiccups a sob. "My father—sob—he's the rightful King of Tanagra—sniff—he will avenge me—"
"Oh please," I spit. "Your dad's a ceremonial footnote and probably allergic to bees."
"SILENCE!" barks one Sister.
I try.
I really do.
But one ant bites my nipple.
"FUCKING TITS OF THE MOON GODDESS!"
The laughter gets louder.
I whip my head sideways just enough to catch sight of her.
Sister Clarity.
Arms folded. Crop dangling from one wrist. That cold little grin on her face like this is the highlight of her ascetic week.
"What did you think would happen?" she calls, voice syrupy as the honey on my thighs. "That there wouldn't be consequences? That you could gorge yourselves on stolen bread and fermented grain like gluttonous little piglets?"
Another bite.
"Gnnhh—"
"You are not going to die, Sisters," she adds. "That would be wasteful. No, no—this is simply… a reminder. A sticky, itchy, unforgettable lesson."
She gestures grandly.
"To be carried in the skin. And remembered by the soul."
One of the ants reaches my neck. Another finds the curve of my ear.
I groan, low and primal, twitching like a sinner on a blessed altar.
Loma whimpers beside me. "I think I'm going to faint…"
I wish I could.
But no.
I am very awake.
I am very naked.
I am very sticky.
And I am being slowly devoured by justice with six legs.
Welcome to Sisterhood.