The moon was pale and thin that evening, throwing more shadow than light. The palace, unbreakable, seemed to be holding its breath. Rumors went from the halls—of Melucia's wild magic, of the accursed sword, of the dawn that approached. But in the tallest tower, where spires kissed the stars, two children of twilight dreamed fitfully in their beds, their bodies entwined in a dream too real to be their own.

Outdoors, the guards shifted uneasily in their stations, sensing something intangible ...