Page 1 of Harbinger

ONE

Out the window, the full moon hangs low and heavy, as if it doesn’t quite belong among the stars above or here at the palace below. That makes two of us.

I shift my weight, last in line to exit the rear vestibule and head to the Royal Astrolatory. Only initiates, nobles in their twenty-fifth year, will be allowed to enter tonight. That hasn’t stopped my older brother, Broderic, from escorting me all the way to the door.

In front of us, a tall young man with a shock of red hair steps forward. The guard swings the door open, hitting us with a frigid blast of air before the initiate races out and he closes the door again.

I turn to Broderic, raising an eyebrow. He refused to bend the rules and let me take a coat.

He opens his mouth like he might offer some advice or encouragement. Instead, he pats my arm. “You’re an Icaros. Act like it.”

I’m not sure if he’s making a threat or giving me the world’s worst pep talk.

I nod quickly, and the guard opens the door again. With a deep breath, I wrap my arms around my chest and step into a howling swirl of snow. Cold gusts bite through my gown, a flimsy ceremonial scrap thrust at me upon my arrival at the palace. It’s meant to show the Stars my devotion—because nothing says dedication like suffering.

At least they allowed us undergarments. Small blessing.

The other initiate is already halfway across the snow-laden gardens, so I pick up speed. The Stars don’t like to be kept waiting.

A row of heated aviaries lines the garden path, birds of every size and variety little more than restless shadows behind the iron bars of their cages.

My breath fogs in front of me as I trudge through the snow, the wind stinging my cheeks. I’m told the weather here is like this nearly the entire year. Now I understand why they named the city Wintour. Back home, the leaves haven’t even begun changing colors. Here, the evening would be better enjoyed under heavy blankets with a mug of hot tea.

Instead, I have a ritual to attend.

Past the last sweep of garden hedges, the astrolatory rises from behind a stone wall and spins upward in a spire of stone and glass to kiss the night. It perches at the brink of the Weeping Sisters, twin waterfalls that tumble to the sea below. Inside the sanctuary, scholars and disciples study the sky above. Some watch the Stars for omens. Others search for new ways to harness their magic. Each serves the king. Most never leave the tower, their lives bound as much to the Stars as to him.

But tonight, for the first time in five hundred years, its doors will open to initiates from every order. Including me.

It’s a great honor—according to everyone I’ve ever met. But on the city’s northernmost bluff, the bitter cold is so sharp it circles back to burning and feels more like a punishment.

The initiate who left before me is nearly to the gates already. My heart races to catch up, but the snow deepens with each step, sucking at my boots and forcing me to slow down so I don’t lose them altogether. My mother used to say I’d be late for my own funeral. Arriving late to my Petition is roughly the same thing.

But when I reach the wrought iron gates, a sentry holds up a hand to stop me. He points to the squat stone wall running alongside us, separating the hallowed space from the rest of the palace complex. “Leave your boots here.”

Looking over, I find a line of abandoned footwear. I blink a few times like they might disappear. When they don’t, my jaw loosens—along with my tongue. “You can’t be serious.”

The astrolatory’s entrance is still a couple hundred yards away. The dress is bad enough. Going barefoot will be torture.

He resumes his rigid stance without another word, which is answer enough.

Tradition always favors the sadistic.

I grumble under my breath, mixing in a healthy dose of curse words, as I fumble with numb fingers to loosen the stiff buckles of my new boots. I nearly fall over twice before I get the first one off and drop it at the end of the line. Even new, their sturdy brown leather, tanned in my home village, looks shabby and utilitarian next to the finery of the others. The second comes off more easily. Snow bites into my bare feet, the chill spreading until it reaches my bones. I turn and glare at the guard.

“One lamb to the slaughter,” I grit through chattering teeth.

I swear his mouth twitches as he shifts aside to let me pass. I take a single excruciating step and decide to abandon my dignity as well. Gathering the skirt of my dress into my fists, I run the final distance to the stairs of the astrolatory’s limestone portico. Tall columns line the entrance, offering little shield against the wind, but I climb quickly, my feet screaming at contact with stone that’s somehow even colder than the fucking snow.

Most of the others stare, like running implies I’ve lost my mind, except for a pair of initiates who offer sympathetic nods. Both share the same black hair, the woman’s cascading in a glossy sheet past her shoulders but the man’s shorn to just below his ears. They blink similar warm brown eyes at each other—probably cousins or siblings—then move to offer me a space between them.

Their compassion tells me they’re likely descendants of Order Leontia, the healers who use their steady magic to patch the rest of us up. I take the spot because I’m alone as the only initiate from my province this year. But mostly I do it for the warmth.

Another initiate paces nearby, her rich, olive skin unflushed despite the cold. She pauses for a moment, turning back, face entirely unreadable as her dark eyes sweep over the group before her. No one moves to offer her a place, and I realize she’s alone, too. I shift to give her space, but the woman to my right mutters, “Marius.”

And for a second, I go still like the rest of them.

With no wars to fight, Order Marius focuses most of its time on border skirmishes with pirates and raiders from the Lost Continent and the lands beyond, lands who covet our magic. But it’s what those from Marius do inside Antares that makes us all pause: ferreting out unlicensed magic and then executing anyone involved with ruthless indifference.