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Other girls were born with a nose for lightning.

Brier rubbed her metallic palms together, clapped once more. Her gloves flared to life. The fine hairs on her body stood straight up. Her nose and mouth stung from the lightning’s heat.

And still the bolt waited.

And waited.

Andwaited—

Noro dodged the bolt at the last moment, veering awayso Brier could gather it up. He arched his neck, aiming his horn.

Brier reached for the bolt, fingers spread wide, blood connected to bone connected to muscle connected to skin and glove.

Her fingers met the light’s edge.

The bolt shot up off the ground, and instead of zipping and zagging away as she expected—

CRA-ZACK!

The bolt twisted around in midair, whipping out one crackling white tendril of light. It hit Brier in the chest and sent her flying.

She did not land well.

She hit the ground at an odd angle, heard a few sickening snaps.

White-hot pain flared up and down her body—her arm, her leg, her skull.

But none of that was worse than the burning sensation in her chest, where the lightning had struck her. Her heart was on fire, climbing up her throat. She couldn’t cough, couldn’t breathe.

“Brier?” came Noro’s terrified voice.

Something wet and scorchingly cold fell onto her skin.

Unicorn tears?

It was the last thing Brier thought before the world turned black.

.3.

The Great Glass Hall

Celestyna Hightower the Twelfth, Queen of the Vale, Master of the Realm, Daughter of Westlin, and Mender of the Break, sixteen years old and small for her age—a fact of life that she despised—sat on her throne, watching her harvesters squirm.

Eleven harvesters. Not twelve.

Someone was tardy.

Queen Celestyna loathed tardiness.

“You come before me incomplete,” she said. “Why?”

A few tacky seconds crawled past before one of theharvesters spoke. It was the eldest, a pale, pointy-nosed man with a scraggly gray beard. What was his name?

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesty,” said the man slowly, “but there was an incident this morning, you see...”

Queen Celestyna sighed, lifting her eyes to the ceiling. Among the vaulted white rafters, slender-necked mistbirds called back and forth from their nests. Others flitted through the air, their periwinkle tail feathers fluttering and iridescent crown feathers shimmering.

One sent a gob of white dung flying to the floor. It landed with a plop right at the feet of handsome young Lord Wycklin, son of the governor of Estar, who had the gall to shriek and flap his hands. He shot a nasty glare up at Celestyna, his mouth twisting.