The massive wrought-iron gates of the Velanthri manor, which had stood for centuries as a sign of unshakeable grace, were torn from their hinges as if they were made of balsa wood. Emery stood in the center of the ballroom, her hands trembling as she grasped her silk skirts. Around her, the music had died suddenly, replaced by the heavy thud of armored boots and the terrifying shriek of Caelorth hawks diving through the skylights.
"Moxy!" Emery gasped, her voice lost in the chaos of the invasion.
She ran toward the entrance, dodging panicked guests who stumbled over their own finery. She reached the courtyard just in time to see the old gatekeeper. Moxy, the man who had given her extra sweets in her childhood and always had a kind word about the weather, was sprawled near his post. His eyes were open, staring at a sky filled with silver wings, his hand still reaching for the lever meant to keep the world out.
