Melucia stood at the balcony of her obsidian spire, wind wrapping around her like an ash snake. Below, in the inner courtyard of the palace, trees no longer whispered on the wind—they hissed, telling of something old clawing its way up from down deep. Fists gripping the chill stone railing, but not fear stiffening her—it was recognition.

She'd experienced this once. A shiver in the universe. The ripping of magic itself. When her mother died. When she'd ignited her own flame with nothing ...