Dedication
For those who don’t believe they can be heroes. It’s time to fly.
Shout-outs to Amanda and Michael Diaz, for all the nights spent obsessing over Harry Potter theories and for reading my fan fiction. My first fantasy novel is for you.
Epigraph
Fear is a phoenix.
You can watch it burn a thousand times
and still it will return.
—LEIGH BARDUGO,
CROOKED KINGDOM
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
One: Brothers
Two: Heroes
Three: Dreamer
Four: Ordinary
Five: A Cycle of Phoenixes
Six: Celestials of New York
Seven: Gold and Gray
Eight: Viral
Nine: The Spell Walkers
Ten: Enigma
Eleven: The Blood Casters
Twelve: Fire-Wing
Thirteen: Nova
Fourteen: Infinity Son
Fifteen: Infinity Son’s Brother
Sixteen: Assemble
Seventeen: Training
Eighteen: Burnout
Nineteen: Spell Walkers of New York
Twenty: No One
Twenty-One: Hope
Twenty-Two: Cage Match
Twenty-Three: Interrogation
Twenty-Four: Powerless
Twenty-Five: Infinity Cycle
Twenty-Six: Rise
Twenty-Seven: Fall
Twenty-Eight: Hearts
Twenty-Nine: Extraordinary
Thirty: The Brightest Fire
Thirty-One: The Trade
Thirty-Two: The Darkest Fire
Thirty-Three: Infinity-Ender
Thirty-Four: Many Faces
Thirty-Five: Gala
Thirty-Six: Winds
Thirty-Seven: Dark Yellow
Thirty-Eight: Ashes
Thirty-Nine: Firefly
Forty: True Colors
Forty-One: Gravesend
Forty-Two: Eduardo Iron
Forty-Three: Shining Bright
Forty-Four: The Crowned Dreamer
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Adam Silvera
Back Ads
Copyright
About the Publisher
OneBrothers
EMIL
I’m dead set on living my one life right, but I can’t say the same for my brother.
No one’s expecting Brighton to be full-grown when we turn eighteen at midnight, but he needs to step it up. Long gone are those days where we were kids acting like we have powers like all these celestials roaming the streets tonight. Their lives aren’t all fun and games, but he stays ignoring the dark headlines we see every day. I can’t get him to see the truth, but I can check myself. I’m done dressing up as the heroic Spell Walkers for Halloween, and I’m done watching celestials and creatures wrestle in steel cages with their natural-born powers. I’m done, I’m done, I’m done.
I got to chill because we’re close as hell, don’t get me wrong. You step in his face and you’ll find me in yours, even though I can’t swing bones for the life of me. But man, there’s been a few times I wondered if we’re actually twins, like maybe Brighton got switched at birth or is secretly adopted. That nonsense no doubt comes from all the comics about chosen ones I’ve read over the years.
He’s running wild at this all-night block party, trying to score interviews left and right for his online series, Celestials of New York, but no one’s about it. Everyone’s busy celebrating the arrival of the Crowned Dreamer, a faint constellation against the dark sky, which is hanging around for most of this month and then goes back to sleep for another sixty-seven years. No one really knows how far back celestials have existed or how they first received their powers, but all signs throughout history point to their connection with the stars. Like maybe their eldest ancestors fell out of the sky. Whatever the truth is, constellations are always a major event for them.
It’s good to see celestials partying for a change. The only time I see gatherings like this lately is to protest the acts of violence and injustice against them, which have doubled in the last nine months. Being gay isn’t rainbows and sunshine all the time, but ever since the Blackout—the worst attack New York has seen in my lifetime—people have been treating celestials like terrorists.
Tonight reminds me of when I attended my first Pride parade. I was out to my family and friends, and all was good there, but I couldn’t pretend there wasn’t still a knot in my stomach from wondering if strangers would be cool with my heart; reading minds would’ve come in handy. During the parade, I felt relief and security and happiness and hope, all tied up like an indestructible rope that bound us together. I breathed easy around strangers for the first time.
I wonder how many celestials are taking that breath tonight.
Brighton is standing behind his tripod, capturing footage as people course through the tents before angling his camera toward the massive and flickering crowned figure in the sky. “Everything is changing tomorrow, I can feel it,” Brighton says. “People are going to want to film us too.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Brighton is quiet long enough for it to be awkward. “You never believe me. Just watch.”
“Maybe this is the year we let it go,” I say. “You got a lot to be excited about already with college in a new city next week and your series and—”
“People can gain powers on their eighteenth birthdays,” Brighton interrupts.
“In books and movies.”
“Which are all based on celestials, who’ve historically come into their powers when they turned eighteen.”
“But how rare is that?”
“Rare makes it unlikely, not impossible.” Brighton’s always got to win an argument, so I shut up. I’m not trying to fight while we ring in our birthday. Problem is, he doesn’t recognize silence as a white flag. “The timing is perfect, Emil. The Crowned Dreamer is elevating every celestial’s power, and if we have even a flicker of gleamcraft in us from Abuelita, it might ignite into something greater. I just . . . I sense it already.”
“You sense it? This another psychic prank?”
Brighton shakes his head and laughs. “Good times, but nah. I’m serious. I can’t explain it, but it’s this tightening feeling in my blood and bones.”
“Let’s bet twenty dollars on this blood-and-bones feeling.” Easy cash to buy another graphic novel.
“Bet.”
We fist-bump and whistle, our signature move.
Brighton’s had his eye on this rooftop rave, and we get in line as more people are being let into the brownstone. We’re behind two women who are wearing the half capes that are customary to celestials. I fight back an epic cringe as I remember how up until two years ago we owned some for fun, completely clueless as to how sacred the capes are until our best friend, Prudencia, explained the traditions. I quickly donated ours to a local shelter. Once the women are let in, we go up the stoop, but this low-key bouncer blocks the door.
“Celestials only,” he says.
“That’s us,” Brighton says.
The brown of the man’s eyes is swallowed by glowing galaxies for a few moments, the telltale sign of every celestial. “Prove it.”
Brighton pointlessly stares back, as
