They said the full moon in Løvlund had its own temperature. That the air turned thick and sweet, like the last breath before a kiss.
Tonight was no exception.
By the time Astrid reached the meadow, the torches had multiplied. Shadows danced across bare skin, painting every thigh, every curve, every flexed spine in amber and smoke. The cello's slow lament had given way to drums now — primal, insistent, seductive. The kind of rhythm that coaxed the truth from bodies.
And in the center, arms raised, hips fluid like poured honey, danced Linna.
Astrid stopped breathing.
Linna wasn't naked. Not quite. She wore a dress that clung like a second skin — wet, sheer, dark with sweat. Her nipples pressed through the fabric like punctuation. Her mouth was open, laughing. Her eyes met Astrid's.
And in them was a dare.
Ida found her first, fingers sliding into hers as if they'd always belonged there.
"You've tasted," she murmured. "But you haven't burned."
Astrid turned. "Burned?"
Ida tilted her head. "Tonight is for embers. For what lingers."
And then Astrid saw them: circles forming around the flames. Bodies kneeling. Bodies bowed. But not in worship — in offering.
Couples, trios, strangers — not performing, but becoming.
A man knelt between two women, his tongue buried in one, his hand lost inside the other.
A woman sat astride her lover's lap, rocking with the patience of someone who knew the crescendo was inevitable, but better delayed.
A dark-skinned girl braided another woman's hair while kissing her spine between each knot.
And all of it was… peaceful. Unrushed. Sacred.
No one watched for approval.
But everyone saw.
Linna reached for Astrid without a word, pulling her into the fire circle, the drums folding them in.
The villagers didn't stare — they smiled.
Linna brought her lips close. "You choose tonight. I follow."
Astrid kissed her.
Not softly.
Not like the greenhouse kiss that had begun it all.
This was a claiming. A consent spoken in tongue, teeth, gasps.
They dropped to the grass like falling stars.
Linna's thighs opened with a sigh. Her fingers tangled in Astrid's hair. And Astrid, bold now, confident in the language the village had gifted her, lowered her mouth.
The taste was immediate.
Sweet.
Salt.
Sacred.
And Linna screamed.
She didn't stop there.
She licked until Linna wept.
Then turned her onto her belly, bit her shoulder, and whispered, "Mine."
Linna laughed through her tears, her breath shaking. "Yes."
Others watched. Not intruding, but witnessing. A woman nearby touched herself slowly, syncing her moans with Linna's.
The fire cracked. Sparks rose.
Astrid kept tasting.
Later, they lay tangled in the ferns, their bodies sore and kissed raw. Linna traced her finger across Astrid's ribs.
"You're not a guest anymore," she said.
Astrid looked up at the moon. "I wasn't, the moment I stopped asking."
Linna smiled. "Then next week, you come with us."
"Where?"
"To the cliffs. The Rite of Smoke. We take only the ones who've shed shame."
"Will I pass?"
"You already have," Linna whispered, placing Astrid's hand between her thighs, guiding it slowly. "But we'll still test you."
Astrid pressed her fingers deeper. "Then test me."
And from across the field, Åse watched.
Smiling.
Because Astrid wasn't becoming one of them.
She already was.