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A Markov is born, and Ravka holds its breath.
A girl! They rejoice, an oracle for us at last. Two generations it's been now, and we are lost. Svetla Markov is born in a drought. The dirt is cracking apart and no flowers grow. It does not rain during her birth nor in the days, weeks, months that follow. Ravka ignores the forewarning. The Darkling purses his lips and does not leave his Little Palace.
Svetla is a scrawny child, but the world's eyes are now on her. The braid down her back is pristine, not a hair out of place. Svetla dreams of the life she will have every night and every morning she awakes with her sight is a curse. She will bring an end to the drought. She is the most important Markov that has ever lived. She is perfect.
