Harbinger of War

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.

Her eyes fall on me for a moment, like somehow she knows I don’t belong with anyone here, either.

Nothing changes on her blank face, but guilt floods through me.

I nudge back to make more room for her, but the Marius initiate squares her shoulders and strides to stand next to a marble column by herself.

She’s brave enough to be from the military order, I’ll give her that. Especially since a spray from the curtain of waterfalls below us finds its way past the columns. I shiver harder as droplets of ice-cold mist settle on my arms and face.

No one speaks as we huddle in small clusters near the massive oak door. Half of us are just trying to stay warm. The other half are sizing one another up.

We all hail from the five noble bloodlines of Antares, but some orders are more …

cooperative than others. So, while we may technically be allies who need one another’s magic to survive, we’re all rivals.

Even now, most of the initiates have splintered off with their bloodline rather than move close enough to share body heat.

“This will be worth it when we receive our birthright tomorrow.” The young man next to me breaks the silence like he senses that everyone needs a pep talk and he’s nominated himself Team Captain. “We’re very lucky.”

A few others nod. I manage half a smile. Luck has nothing to do with it.

Before we governed magic, the Stars chose randomly, picking who to bless with little regard for merit or morality. Witches and gods walked the world then, if you believe the old stories. They gave us nochtimetry—the sacred art that harnesses the magic of the Stars.

They also gave us war.

Endless, brutal war.

But we mere mortals fought back, annihilating them in the Last War.

The general who led the defeat was named king, and he elevated the most powerful families that fought alongside him to patrons, tying each bloodline and its descendants to one of the powerful constellations that determine our fates.

These noble families became the pillars of our society, each learning, governing, and controlling an order of magic for the good of all of Antares.

That’s the history, anyway, and since I hail from one of the original patron families, I’m not supposed to question it. None of the nobility would dare. Not when it means we’re among the few that will inherit the responsibility of wielding that magic.

Normally, we accept this birthright at our home astrolatory in front of our families and a few close friends. But not this year.

This year is the Quincentennial, the five hundredth anniversary of the day our illustrious ancestors decided to lay down their weapons one final time and give peace a chance. And, of course, now the new king wants to celebrate like this was somehow all his idea.

So, he’s summoned every noble coming of age this year to receive their birthright at court.

Or die of exposure.

Whichever comes first, apparently.

Team Captain turns to me when no one else responds to his words of encouragement. “Where are you from?”

Before I can answer, the wooden door creaks open to reveal the dimly lit entry.

A vesper, one of the astrolatory’s cloistered scholars, appears in the open doorway.

The gray streaking her long, dark braids matches the shimmering, embroidered fabric of her robes.

Part priestess, part oracle, and part scientist, her life is dedicated to studying the Stars above.