It wasn’t until Skandar noticed the unicorn’s transparent horn that he realized. “That’s a wild unicorn,” he breathed. “Like the ones in that old video the Island showed the Mainland. The one that convinced the Mainland that unicorns were real all those years ago. The one where they attacked the village—” “Something’s wrong,” Dad said again. “It can’t be a wild unicorn,” Kenna whispered. “It has a rider.” Skandar hadn’t noticed the person—at least he thought it was a person—on its back. The rider wore a billowing black shroud that flapped in the breeze, the bottom tattered and torn. A wide white-painted stripe obscured the rider’s face from the base of the throat to the very top of the head, leading into short dark hair. The unicorn reared up—pawing the air with its hooves—belching thick black smoke. Its phantom rider let out a triumphant howl, the unicorn screeched, and smoke filled the arena. Skandar watched the unicorn advance toward the Chaos Cup competitors, sparks dancing around its hooves, a jet of white from the rider’s palm lighting up the screen. In the moment before the picture disappeared completely in black smoke, the rider turned and—slowly and deliberately—raised one long bony finger to point directly into the camera. Then there was only sound. Explosions of elemental magic; unicorns screeching. More screaming from the crowd, and the unmistakable thundering of feet as Islanders attempted to escape from their seats. As they crashed past the camera, their panicked voices jumbling together, Skandar noticed two words repeated over and over. The Weaver. Skandar had never heard of the Weaver, but the more the name was whispered, shouted, screamed by the crowd, the more it began to scare him.
