Rosalinda’s breath came in ragged bursts as she tore through the underbrush. The forest was alive—not with birdsong or rustling leaves, but with whispers. They slithered through the fog like serpents, curling around her ears.

“Harbinger.”

The word echoed again, soft and sharp, like a blade dipped in honey.

She didn’t know what it meant. She didn’t know why she was here. Hours ago, she had been training with Seraphine, her mentor, her tormentor, in the stone halls of the Citadel. ...