Yanka Costa had learned to read the weather in the bones of her left hand. Every ache, every subtle shift in pressure, was a prophecy. The old women in her village, tucked into a valley that time had forgotten, called it the Gift of the Stone Sky . They said that when Yanka was born, a meteorite had cracked the silence of the night, and the dust had settled on her cradle, sealing a pact between her flesh and the atmosphere.