The night broke with no warning.
Lena woke to the sound of wings—not natural wings, but thousands of paper-thin flutters, like sheets torn from a ledger and given life. Her crowns flared instinctively, storm crackling blue-white above the ruined cottage. Dominic was already beside her, pulling her upright, eyes locked on the horizon.
The beacon had bent lower. Too low. Tonight, it touched the roofs.
Kael swore softly. “Well, storm-girl, it seems we’ve been promoted. The Reviser doesn’t send a storm unless he’s bored of drafts.”
The villagers stumbled out with torches and bowls of ash, clutching what little armor they had cobbled together. Sal’s ledger shook in his grip, the ink bleeding through the page as if refusing to stay still.
Mireya slammed her staff into the dirt, voice sharp.
