It sliced through the heavens, veining through swollen rain clouds in brilliant arcs of purple, blue, and white. A bolt shot down near them and slammed into a tree, sending it up in a whoosh of flame. Clouds roiled above. It was so dark, it could have been night. Thunder exploded again, so loud it shook Ranka’s bones, and still the storm built, spurred on by the grief of a prince.

Galen’s hands trembled as he stared skyward with pure, unbridled awe. The clouds swelled darker, choking out the sun, casting the world in shadow. The sea frothed as the winds strengthened, churning the waves into a mass of writhing black water and whitecaps. In the bay, sailors scrambled to furl sails, to pull their boats back to dock. An entire city held its breath, watching as a hurricane brewed above it.

“Can you feel it?” Ranka said softly. “That power? So strong it aches?”

Tears welled in Galen’s eyes. Lightning sparked over his fingers. “Yes.”

“Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he whispered.

“Good,” she said. “Now take it.”

A tremor rippled through him. Galen raised his hands. The storm built. The trees groaned, their fronds tearing as the wind picked up speed. Galen’s eyes widened as he stood there, palms to the sky, his entire body shaking under a terrible weight only he could feel. She wondered if he was recalling the storms his father had summoned, if he saw his father’s pale face wreathed in the roiling heavens alongside the ones he’d killed and the ones he’d saved, or if it was only Galen’s future he saw twisting above him—brilliant, powerful, and his to command. Lightning flashed again, snaking through the ever-darkening clouds, followed by a boom of thunder so close it made her ears ring. Galen’s fingers shook as he reached for a sky that was his to break. His eyelids fluttered as his lips moved in prayer.

You have the whole sky in you, Galen.

His eyes flew open.

Use it.

Galen slammed his hands down.

And finally, after seven months of drought, the skies opened up over Isodal and poured.

33

THE RAIN POURED SO HARD, it stung. Ranka stood there, immobile, witnessing a miracle and history wrapped in one. Rainwater plastered her hair to her forehead and her cheeks, slicking her clothes to her body. Lightning danced freely overhead, painting the world in flashes of raw energy, as if the skies were eager to make up for all the years Galen had held his power at bay. After a few minutes his legs began to tremble. When he could no longer stand, Ranka caught him, and together they sat.

For a long time they were silent. Ranka wanted to tell Galen she was proud of him. She wanted to tell him this was only the beginning. She wanted to tell him she understood.

Instead, she took his hand. “It’s not your fault.”

His mouth trembled.