Red Tower Books is known for bringing readers some of the most memorable romantasy books of the decade, from Rebecca Yarros' viral Empyrean Series to Shield of Sparrows by Devney Perry. The Entangled Publishing imprint is having a big year, too, with new additions to series like Assistant to the Villain and The Crucible hitting shelves, as well as Threshing Day coming out this month. One of the most exciting releases emerging from the publisher in 2026, however, isn't a sequel or spinoff of an established series.
Geneva Lee kicks off a brand-new story in Harbinger, one that romantasy regulars likely won't want to miss. It teases all the ingredients of a great addition to the genre: a heroine pursued for her magic, a deadly MMC with serious shadow-daddy vibes, and high stakes with feelings simmering beneath the surface. And it hails from the author of the Filthy Rich Fae series and the Royals Saga.
If those details don't make a convincing enough case to dig into book one of the The Birthright Cycle, perhaps the synopsis from the publisher will serve as a selling point:
Arden Icaros was never supposed to matter. From the poorest of five noble bloodlines, she prefers life on the family farm with dirt under her nails over the fine dresses at court. She just needs to get through one boring ceremony, inherit her earth magic, and return home.
Instead, she's handed a dagger and with it, an impossible choice.
Now Arden is branded an omen of war, half the nobility wants her dead, and assassins are tracking her every move.
Her only chance of survival lies with the most feared man in Antares.
They call him Bishop. No one remembers the name he had before he dedicated his life to his order. Empowered to execute first and question later, Bishop is ruthless, terrifying, and utterly loyal to the kingdom that wants Arden dead.
He should kill her.
Instead, he offers her sanctuary.
But the longer Arden stays under Bishop's protection, the more dangerous he becomes. Because Bishop has secrets powerful enough to topple kingdoms...and a need for Arden that could ruin them both.
Today, Winter Is Coming is excited to reveal an exclusive excerpt of Harbinger's first chapter. It introduces us to Arden Icaros, who bucks convention even early in the novel. Chapter 1 presents her with a sacrifice to make — and endears us to her already by showing her compassion.
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.
We move toward her in a herd, eager to warm ourselves by the heating stones within. But the vesper doesn’t invite us inside. Her gaze sweeps across each initiate in turn, assessing us like we’re books to catalog instead of people.
“It is a great honor to pass through these doors and give your life to the Stars,” she explains in a clear, strong voice.
Forget honor. I’ll take a coat. But I nod dutifully along with the others.
“Tonight, you will each face your Petition, the first step required to receive your birthright,” she continues. “Which of you will go first?”
For a moment, no one moves as it hits us. The ritual is private, a showing of loyalty to the Stars. Before we receive our magic, we’re meant to stand beneath their canopy and prove we’re ready to leave our old lives behind—whatever that means. But if we’re doing this one by freaking one, and she’s blocking the door, the rest of us will wait outside. I lift my hand to volunteer, but Team Captain shoots forward and bows.
“It would be my honor,” he announces, puffing his chest like he’s accepting a medal. Someone in the group across from us whispers to his friends, and they all snicker. Arrogant enough to mock someone in front of a vesper? What order are they from?
The vesper stares Team Captain down. “Name and order?”
“Ren Sata, Order Leontia.”
He’s a healer, like I thought. Although his ambition is a surprise, since his order prides itself on being self-sacrificing. Then again, he probably sees it as his duty to go first and show us we have nothing to worry about.
The vesper gestures for him to follow. They disappear inside, the door closing behind them.
Thick, uncomfortable silence descends again among the rest of us. With Ren gone, I’m exposed on one side. I wrap my arms around myself as the wind picks up.
“He better not take too long.” A blonde with wide-set eyes across from me flexes her hands. Her nose is upturned at the end, reminding me of my favorite cat from back home. “I feel like I’m going to lose a finger.”
The man beside her has the same green eyes and tilted nose, though he stands at least a foot taller. Twins or very closely related. He catches me studying him and winks. “That’s not the appendage I’m worried about.”
I almost find it funny. But his pants look a lot warmer than the silk dresses given to the women, so I dislike him by default.
“Would it kill them to let us wait inside?” I mutter, earning a few nods of agreement.
Unfortunately, the blonde takes this as an invitation to complain more. “This is why I hate visiting the capital. It’s always so cold in Wintour.”
In other news, water is wet.
I focus on warming up my hands, but another initiate takes her bait and asks, “Have you visited here before?”
“We travel all the time. We’re second cousins of Patron Calix.” She flicks a finger at her brother, brightening like the bragging is warming her up. “My father imbues armories, so we’ve been to nearly every province.”
My father always said Calix is the one family no one can afford to cross—and the gleam in her eyes tells me she knows that, too.
Because Calix is the only order that can make steel indestructible . . . or as fragile as glass. Even my family’s magic isn’t enough to keep crops alive if our Calix-supplied equipment breaks. But they also control the entire black market. If it’s magical and convenient, a Calix has figured out how to sell it.
That’s not a problem for most of us, except Order Marius, who are stuck dealing with the forbidden magic. I guess after five hundred years of peace, it gives the military something to do.
“Wow,” I say, if only to keep my lips from freezing shut. This conversation isn’t worth wasting energy better spent on maintaining the last of my body heat. A few of the other initiates manage more enthusiastic responses, and she begins spewing stories about her family’s trips to nearly every corner of Antares.
“Where are you from?” her brother asks me, eyes twinkling.
First a dick joke and now this? Somebody’s here for more than their birthright.
Still, I admire his ability to flirt under these conditions, so I answer with a forced smile, “Damalis.”
“Damalis?” his sister repeats with a slow blink, like she’s just realized I have two heads. “I’ve never met anyone from Order Icaros before.”
Probably because agricultural magic requires sticking close to the land. Even though my father was a patron, he only traveled to the royal city once a year. My older brother took over those business trips when he got sick, but we couldn’t afford to send anyone else. The Quincentennial might be my only chance to see something other than farmland in my lifetime.
The blonde must be thinking the same thing, because she says, “Farming must be so boring.”
My throat knots, heat rising to my cheeks despite the weather. From irritation, not shame. She might look down on me, but I bet she likes to eat.
“It’s not so bad. I know how to butcher a cow.” This time, I don’t smile, and she moves closer to her brother.
Agriculture isn’t the most glamorous magic—or the most lucrative—but it’s still necessary. And unlike Miss Second Cousin, I hail from a patron bloodline, one of the original founding families of modern Antares. Only a handful of the other initiates can claim the same, if any.
She’s moved on to describing her home estate when the ancient door opens again, and the initiate from Leontia staggers out. His tan skin is paler than before, and he steels his face like he’s trying to keep tears from leaking out of his shining eyes. His hands are clean and empty, but he wipes them on the hem of his tunic over and over, like they’re covered in something. He doesn’t look at anyone as he pushes past us, hurrying away from the astrolatory and disappearing into the night.
“Are we supposed to just . . . leave like that?” the blonde asks.
“I don’t think so,” I murmur with another shiver. Not that they gave us a rule book.
The vesper reappears in the doorway. Her silver robes billow as she lifts her hand. “Next.”
But no one moves forward. A few people even back away, the cold forgotten following the first initiate’s hasty departure.
Tomorrow, we will all witness one another’s Kindlings, the ceremony when we receive our inherited power from the Stars. The Kindling doesn’t just hand you magic, though. That’s why it’s customary to undergo the night before alone to show proper reverence. Whatever that means. Broderic only told me: what happens tonight is between you and the Stars. That I should show I’m prepared to shed who I am and be what they need me to be.
That didn’t scare me before. Now I wish I’d badgered him for more information.
Because the Kindling only stokes the magical ember in our blood. It smolders unseen, waking on its own schedule over the months that follow, if ever.
Until it manifests fully, any nochtimetric patterns we attempt are pretty much useless in our hands. Or worse, they backfire. Maybe that’s why duty and responsibility have been drilled into my head since I could understand the concepts. I’m only half convinced I even want my magic to wake up at this point.
But anything is better than standing out here a minute longer. I’m nearly frozen to the stone, but I manage one step forward and then another, pins and needles stabbing the soles of my feet.
The vesper studies me, and her eyes narrow slightly. “Order?”
“Icaros.” I raise my chin and clench my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering.
Her gaze settles on me like she can see the dirt that’s usually under my fingernails. “Name?”
“Arden Icaros.” My breath curls around my name like fog.
“Follow me, Lady Icaros.” The vesper steps to the side, nodding permission for me to enter.
“She’s from a patron line,” someone whispers behind me, sudden interest dripping in their tone. My family name changes the math.
For them.
I don’t turn to see who said it. Even if part of me wants to see Miss Second Cousin’s face. Instead, I square my shoulders and march inside, ignoring how my body protests the sudden movement.
I might not be beautiful or rich like the other initiates, but what I do have is enough common sense to get out of the fucking cold.
The sluggish warmth of the floor’s inlaid heating stones rewards me. It seeps into my numb feet and spreads across my skin before settling into my tight muscles. The vesper closes the door and latches it, locking the others out—or me in. Ren seemed pretty eager to get out.
Nope. Not going there.
“This way.” She breezes through the vestibule toward a bend in the corridor.
I’m not even half thawed, so I can barely keep up with her brisk pace. I still try, since the others are stuck out in the cold until I finish. It would be a shame to send Blondie back home with only nine toes.
I make it a few steps before I stop in my tracks. This time to stare.
Moonlight spills through the astrolatory’s glass ceiling—glass so the vespers can watch the Stars, and so the Stars can watch back. Torchieres flicker with captured starlight that illuminates the hallway. Their faint glow catches gold shards embedded in the floor to make the dark stone look like the night sky.
Our astrolatory back home is open to every citizen in the province of Damalis. Unlike this one, it is rustic and plain, little more than stone walls and a paned, sheet-glass roof. Dad used to tell us that the more gold there was inside an astrolatory, the less soul it had.
Which makes the Royal Astrolatory the most soulless place I’ve ever set foot in.
Either the black marble or the gold set into it could probably pay off our estate’s entire debt and fund our family for another century or two.
When we reach a series of alcoves carved high and shallow into the building’s stone wall to our right, she slows, allowing me time to study each one.
Constellations are carved into the recessed walls, their dots and intersecting lines painted with gold leaf. One each for the original patron orders of Antares: Velesont’s many-headed hydra, the gentle lioness of Leontia, Calix’s overflowing chalice, the horned wolf of Marius, and my own order’s pegasus. As we pass a blackened sixth alcove, I avert my eyes. So does the vesper.
The corridor ends with a staircase that spirals up, floor after floor stacking in tiers on top of one another toward the heavens.
We pass doors on each level inlaid with gold and jewels that connect in patterns more complicated than any I’ve ever seen. Each is more intricate than the last until we reach the top. The final door is a slab of stone, unadorned save for a simple knob.
There’s nowhere else for us to go, but she doesn’t open it. Instead, she reaches into her robe, and my breath snags. The first initiate looked devastated when he came back. Now it’s my turn to be traumatized.
And to think I begged my brother to send word that I was sick, so we could skip all of this.
But she only withdraws a small bottle filled with a thick, milky substance that lingers on the sky-blue glass. Smiling at my confusion, she uncorks the lid. “The crown’s observatory is a sacred place,” she explains, dipping a finger into the oil. “Bow.”
I squat into a graceless curtsy, too nervous to do it properly as my eyes drop to the floor. She draws a line across my forehead, then another that bisects, then another, and another. The oil warms on my skin as she murmurs in the strange, melodic language I’ve only heard a handful of times before. During weddings and other rituals. When our local vespers bless the fields before seeding. At my father’s funeral.
“It’s a great honor to enter this chamber,” she says, stepping away. “Only those willing to dedicate their lives to the safeguarding of magic should do so.”
Straightening, I nod. Rites and ceremonies have never been very important to me. Working the land requires practical magic, not ancient superstition. But even in Damalis, there are plenty who believe the Stars expect our devotion and that they’ll punish those who neglect to show it. It’s why every year we perform a fertility ritual in the fields before any magic is done. It’s also why no one says anything if the crops fail anyway.
However, since I’m here as a guest of the king, I can’t risk offending anyone in the royal city. Not if Broderic is going to secure a wealthy wife and, along with her, our family’s estate.
The vesper slips the bottle back into her robes. But when her hand reappears, it’s not empty.
My stomach sinks as I stare at the slender dagger. She holds it out, and I fumble taking it. There are stars and lines engraved on the silver blade. Its gold hilt is studded with sapphires and diamonds, all connected by more etchings. It’s utterly ridiculous, but the dagger is light, almost dainty, and it fits in my palm like it was made especially for me. I turn it over like I’ll find instructions written on the other side.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” I ask, still studying it while I process what’s happening.
I’m standing in the Royal Astrolatory.
Where a less-than-talkative semi-priestess anointed me.
And she just handed me a knife.
The pit in my stomach grows.
“Do what needs to be done,” she murmurs.
I think of the initiate wiping his clean hands. Of what little information my brother gave me about tonight. But it’s the haunted sadness in her eyes—the same look that my father got during the seasonal slaughter—that tells me exactly what needs to be done.
Fuck this.
And fuck my brother for acting like this was a simple rite of passage.
A girl should be warned when knives are going to be involved in the evening’s activities.
The vesper gestures to the door in front of us but doesn’t reach for its knob.
I’m being tested.
I have to open it this time. I have to walk inside.
Or I could turn around. She can’t stop me. Not while I’m the one holding the knife.
“I’m not . . .” I swallow back the words.
She places a gentle hand on my shoulder, guiding me forward. “Remember who you are, Arden Icaros.” She emphasizes my family name like I did outside the astrolatory—as if I need to be reminded. “Then do what needs to be done.”
You’re an Icaros. Act like it.
I clutch the dagger, Broderic’s words nudging me toward the door.
No wonder that initiate nearly ran from the astrolatory. Raised to heal his entire life, then given a dagger at the door. Order Leontia has always felt the most like ours.
Until today.
Today, I see the difference between us. He probably didn’t know why she gave him this knife. I do. But something sour pools in my stomach. It clenches and twists as I touch the door. The heavy slab swings open with a hiss and a rush of cold air. I don’t dare look back to see if the vesper follows me inside. I don’t turn when the door closes with a soft but ominous thud.
After the gold-flecked marble and extravagance of the rest of the building, the observatory is depressingly sparse, though the circular stone room with its flaming torches feels more like my home astrolatory. Damp air prickles my nose, the scent of musty stone and faded incense mingling with something metallic that sticks in the back of my throat.
I know that tang, but there isn’t a speck of blood to be found.
I choke back a cough rather than break the heavy silence. Centuries of rituals have worn the limestone floor smooth against my bare feet. An icy breeze drifts toward me, catching my hair and raising goose bumps all over my body. Looking up, I find endless night. There’s no ceiling above the circular chamber, not even glass, to separate this space from the Stars. They’re so close that my fingers itch to reach up and pluck one from the sky.
But that’s not why I’m here.
I drop my gaze, my eyes adjusting to the dim firelight, and find an altar. But it’s the tall man standing on the other side of the chamber who catches my attention. Tightness laces my chest, constricting more with each breath I take. He isn’t alone, but somehow, I only see him. He doesn’t move or speak, but his presence is as demanding and damning as the sky above me.
He is a column of shadow against the dull stone in his black uniform. The only color in the room is the red cloak that falls from his broad shoulders to the straps of his thick-soled boots.
Only bishops, the highest-ranked officers of Order Marius, wear that color. It’s a position so revered—so sacred in its duty—that many second-born nobles from their order train from the time they can walk in preparation to claim it. Few manage, but when they do, they give up everything—marriage, children, even their own names as proof of their unwavering dedication to protecting the people of Antares—and become simply Bishop.
There are only a handful that carry this rank in Antares. Each travels the continent, maintaining the law with little oversight from anyone save the king and the high vesper.
When I was little, one came to Damalis, but it was so long ago that my recollection of her is more feeling than concrete memory. A pit in the stomach. A sense of being small and insignificant. A tugging alarm in the chest that’s impossible to ignore. All wrapped in scarlet.
This bishop’s hood is drawn, obscuring his face even more in the dim room. I take a step in his direction like he holds some invisible thread that I can’t resist pulling. He tilts his head, and the hood shifts just enough to see one corner of his mouth curve slightly, like he knows I’m walking toward him and no one else.
The movement breaks the spell. I stop, remembering that we’re not alone.
Two others flank him, dual weapons ready to strike. The silver embroidery on their uniforms marks them as knights, the highest rank someone without noble blood can achieve.
The first knight’s face is all sharp lines and brutal angles, like her skin was hewn from the black stone that makes up the Stygia Mountains. And with the sword strapped to her back, she looks as beautiful and deadly as their uncrossable peaks. The other knight is handsome despite the pale web of raised scars that mars one side of his tanned neck and continues to his cheekbone. His eyes keep flicking to the door with a restless energy that suggests he can’t wait to get out there and add more damage to his otherwise perfect face.
“Pretend they’re not here,” the vesper says behind me, and I almost jump out of my own skin. I’d forgotten about her. “They will only observe your ritual.”
Observe. The single word crashes into me. To my audience, I’m little more than a woman holding a knife pointed at the stars—and they’re waiting for me to use it. I force my attention to the altar. It’s a simple stone plinth that is empty save for a black silk cloth draped over the shape of a bird’s cage.
The vesper walks over and tugs the cloth off of—yes, a golden cage.
And inside it: an offering to the Stars. A sacrifice to earn their favor. Proof I’ve left my old life behind.
That I’m worthy of their magic.
The black bird tries to stretch its wings, sidling on its perch as it searches for room that isn’t there. It’s too large to be an ordinary raven. I take a single step, and it tilts its head, two beady black eyes zeroing in on me with unnerving curiosity. There’s something almost human in the way it stares, and a chill races down my spine.
The cage’s moon-shaped clasp is studded with pearly stones, and the bars don’t curve into a bell. Instead, they intersect like a trellis.
Not an ordinary cage. Not an ordinary bird.
And it’s still watching me.
When I was a child, my mother spun stories of witches who transformed into oscens. They flew to the heavens as the giant black birds to listen to the Stars whisper their secrets. When I was only a bit older, Broderic told me the witches turned into birds to steal children from their beds. I had nightmares for weeks. Mom made him sit up with me as punishment. She said they were only stories. Only birds.
Still, oscens have been hunted to near extinction. People believe they’re a sign of bad luck. I never thought I would see one.
I really wish I wasn’t seeing one now.
A cold sweat breaks across my skin, making me shiver in the night air. My palms grow slippery, and my grip on the knife falters. I catch it as it slips down without thinking and gasp, the blade slicing open my palm. I pass the dagger to my other hand. The wound is just deep enough to spill blood. Nothing serious, even though it stings like seven hells. I clench my hand tightly to stop the bleeding. I’ll deal with it later.
There’s a rustle of red cloak as the bishop shifts forward. He doesn’t come any closer, but heat blooms on my cheeks. Having an audience is only making this worse.
Get it over with.
I feel eyes boring into me as I inch toward the altar. It hardens my resolve, even though my stomach is still churning.
I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty. I’ve held a lamb while my father slit its throat, felt it thrash for survival, go still, and then helped cook it to feed our family. Before that day, we provided and cared for it. It didn’t know not to trust us when we came for the slaughter. But we made its end swift. A kind but necessary death. Everything about this feels wrong.
It’s a crime to cage a wild thing.
My chest tightens, trying to confine my racing heart like it’s inside that golden cage.
Trembling, I unlock the hinge with my injured hand and clutch the dagger behind my back in my other.
The clasp pops open with a slight hiss of released magic. Opening the door, I will the oscen to fly away, but it continues to watch me like it’s here to observe me as well.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur and reach inside.
The bird bumps its beak against the blood that’s now smeared across my whole hand.
What comes next is easy. Or it should be. I don’t even need the knife. Grab it by the neck like a chicken. A quick twist. Fast and clean.
That’s all I need to do.
But the oscen climbs onto my wrist, claws scraping my skin. Not the behavior of a wild animal, but one that’s been tamed.
Broken.
Something cracks inside me as I draw it out of the cage. I tighten my hold on the dagger’s hilt, feeling every unnecessary jewel dig like teeth into my palm. Such a beautiful weapon for such an ugly deed. No wonder the man from Leontia kept wiping his hands. Some stains aren’t visible outside one’s own soul.
The Petition demands evidence I’m ready to step into my new life. Apparently, by taking another life.
Do what needs to be done.
The vesper’s words echo in my head. Instructions that feel like a curse.
Resolve blazes through me until I’m sure I’ll combust, and I move my arm, drawing the bird closer, looking into its curious eyes.
There’s no other choice.
I know what’s expected of me.
I know what I must do.
I move on instinct.
“Fly,” I whisper and fling my arm up.
Wings stretch. Beat. Soar.
I drop the dagger on the altar with a clang as the oscen surges toward the stars overhead and disappears through the opening. Relief washes through me.
One of the knights makes a choked noise that I’d almost swear was a laugh, but my gaze stays on the clouds drifting over the constellations above. I don’t look away until I’m certain the creature is gone, and then I look at him.
At the twin swords strapped to his back and peeking over his broad shoulders. A shiver races down my spine. His hood still shadows his face, but the smirk from before flattens into a grim line.
“You were expected to kill it.” His voice is low and raspy, each word drawn out like an executioner delivering a slow death.
Fear climbs up my throat, but I swallow it back. Lifting my chin, I shrug, the movement braver than I feel. “I decided not to.”
I brace for punishment. For refusing to make the sacrifice. For speaking like that to a man like him.
But the bishop turns his face away from me, and my cheeks flame. It’s a subtle dismissal, and it cuts to my core. I’m not even worth the effort of a reprimand.
I don’t hear the vesper approach, and I startle when her hand rests gently on my arm. “You’re done here.”
Yes, I probably am.
Harbinger officially hits shelves on September 22. The book is currently available for pre-order.
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