The sky wept fire.

The cursed fortress screamed with naked, writhing power. Black stone broke apart, lightning tore the sky asunder, and every gasp in the throne room had the bite of ash and loss. At its heart was Melucia, quivering—her magic spilling out in waves of gold and shadows, her body trembling with the effort. The storm echoed her suffering. Her dress, once dignified, was torn and deep red-stained. Her hair, silver, was tangles and lashing about her head like a wreath of spectral ...