Then the sky tore open.

Not with thunder, not with warning. A seam of white-hot light split the air above the lake, jagged and screaming, like the world itself was being ripped in two. The sound that followed was not a sound at all—it was a pressure, a weight that pressed down on every chest, every eardrum, every thought.

Students stumbled to their feet. Books fell. A few screamed.

And from the rift, something vast and terrible emerged.

And on its back, seated with the ease of a born rider, was a girl.

The girl slid from its back. Her hair was white as bone, tangled and windswept, and her eyes swept the crowd of students with the sharp, assessment gaze of someone who had already sized up every threat in the vicinity.

She spoke. The words were foreign, sharp and melodic, rolling off her tongue like a language made for commands and fire.

Nobody understood a word.