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Chapter Forty-Two

T ime feels infinite here.

Boundless. Shapeless.

I don’t know how much of it has passed.

The world is black like sludge. Like murk. I can see nothing beyond faint blurs of light, there and gone again. My own consciousness hangs by a thread, though I cannot reach it. I try to lift my hands, wriggle my fingers, but my body—if it can be called that—does not move at my command.

I always hoped death would feel like freedom, but it is no such thing.

Then a voice comes to me, a voice I recognize. Emilia’s, but not. “This is her, no?”

Just then, a scene materializes before me, a whir of dark shapes and colors, but I can focus on nothing aside from the woman before me.

Silver, translucent skin gleams under the azure, iridescent glow of this place. She eases down her hood, and blue hair spirals about her neck, her gown floating in weightless ribbons. And when she looks at me, her sheer loveliness brings a pang to my heart.

Except I think perhaps I no longer have a heart.

The Fate of Morta.

I realize, then, that she holds me suspended. I am a few feet above the ground, weightless, pliant to her command. She twists her fingers, and I rotate before coming to face her again.

I try to move my lips but find that I cannot. It’s as if I’m in the throes of a nightmare, except it’s all too real.

Then I see the figure beside her, stepping into my line of focus.

Recognition is swift, like a jolt to my nonexistent heart. And when the Fate speaks again, I know I’m not dreaming.

“You can stop causing a ruckus in my cavern and scaring the wits out of my souls now, Anton.”

Green eyes. Royal garb.

The glint of rings.

He is here. How is he here?

Then I see the lifeless body draped in his arms, broken and bruised, almost beyond recognition.

Carefully, he places my corpse before the Fate of Morta, and then his gaze latches on to mine. I wonder what I look like to him. A wisp, or a wraith? But try as I might, I cannot breathe his name—

A single stride brings him to me, except that he bounces back, as if there’s a pane of glass between us.

“What in the souls have you done to her? Moranya, I thought you better than this.”

Moranya. That must be her name now that she’s no longer Mercy.

And how are they so familiar? But then I recall, dimly, that he’s been here before. I wonder how many times.

How had he refused her hand?

“Anton, please. She is a new soul. I must determine her virtue before I can release my hold,” Moranya says, gliding closer to me, examining me as if through a mirror. “Interesting, that despite her lovely sheen, I see blood, too. She has brought me not one but three souls.”

Mine.

King Rurik’s.

Illian’s.

“A shame she can’t stay with you,” Anton says.

“Why bother with her to begin with? This is unlike you.”

“She is a hero.”

“Very admirable, little king. But does she know your truth?” Moranya whirls to face me. “Do you know the reason Anton has been able to return from my lair time and again?”

“Moranya—”

“Ah, I see she does not.” To me, she says, “You see, he never took my hand because he has never loved anyone. Not even a single soul. I have worn many faces, and yet he has always refused me.”

So that’s how Anton did it.

Eremis loved himself, and so he took his own hand.

Anton loves . . . no one. He never has. And despite whatever feelings I have toward him, it only makes my heart break.

He loves no one, and I wonder if it’s because no one has ever truly loved him. Because he hides his true self, keeps everyone at an arm’s length.

I wish I could tell him that her efforts to turn me against him will not work.

I hope he can see it in my eyes.

But he merely dons his usual arrogance, a mask of surety that pulls his lips into an ever so slight grin. “A compelling yet pointless argument, Moranya, when I will not allow you to keep her here, all the same.”

“You think you have the power to stop me?”

“Souls, no,” he says, barking a laugh. “But I do happen to have a bit of . . . leverage.” He draws a long chain from his tunic, a small, circular pendant attached. He flips it open to reveal a sphere of prismatic glass.

“My turn to tell a story.”

The pendant—I remember it. He had tried to get me to take it when he was hanging from the chandelier, moments before Illian barged in. Find the nearest source of light.

He lets it fall, then twirls the chain in his hand so the pendant twists round and round.

“You see, I found it interesting that the first time I died, I appeared before you exactly as I had been before my death, all my belongings in tow.

That meant others would, too. Of course, I was never compelled to take your hand, even despite your allure, being that there was no one I loved enough to want to join. And so I saw you as your true self.

“But I knew better, my dearest Moranya, than to make Eremis’s mistake in assuming you would not find a way to outsmart me one day. I decided I wanted my own version of immortality beyond whatever emotion I might feel. So I studied every tale I could find about you and Eremis both.”

Once more, he palms the pendant, then tosses it upward a few times like an apple.

“My favorite version of Eremis’s story was the one where you turned his reflection back on him.

Not by holding up a mirror but becoming his reflection yourself.

I realized, then, that the answer was simple.

All I needed was a way to see through your disguise when you inevitably found one to compel me.

“But that begs the question: How could I accomplish such a feat? Then I remembered the Temple of Zur, where some claimed the fragments of the mirror used in most versions of your tale were kept. And while you never used the mirror in the way most people believed, the mirror wasn’t contrived, now was it?

There was indeed a mirror, only it wasn’t originally yours.

It belonged to the Fate you seduced—and the temple priests claimed a fates-touched object always holds a remnant of its power. Like a thumbprint.

“All it took was a single fragment of that mirror, and two years in a workshop with Gustav Bayard—the son of a glass smith and inventor like myself—to create our prototype. A lens, we called it,” he says, observing it once more.

“Of course I couldn’t be certain whether it would work unless I tested it out myself.

And you see,” he says, looking to Moranya, “I did, only you did not notice. It was a nice try, using Vasalie’s face.

And perhaps I might have taken your hand, had it not been for this; I suppose now we will never know.

Didn’t you wonder why I was fiddling with my jewelry?

Oh, right—I make it such a regular habit with you, you were bound not to notice. ”

A sob builds in my chest, though I can’t release it. He had tried to give me the lens, tried to explain how to use it, only he was cut off. He wanted to give me a way to return to life, all while potentially risking his own.

Perhaps I might have taken your hand, had it not been for this.

Because she appeared as me. I can’t—can’t—think about what that means, or what would have happened if I had taken that necklace from him.

Moranya’s eyes widen, almost imperceptibly. She takes a step closer, observing the lens. “A marvel,” she finally says, clucking her tongue. “Truly, I admire your efforts. But there is one problem, see. If I accept your little trinket, how do I know you won’t create more?”

“Oh, I most certainly will, and I’ll hand one to every member of my court if you do not bargain with me.”

“Ah, but you gave yourself away, Anton, when you told me you might have fallen for a face such as hers. Replicate your lens, and you’ll never see her again. Risk it, if you want. But we can settle this much more easily than that.”

Anton fists his palms. “Name your price.”

“You, of course.”

He gives her a knowing look. “Try again.”

“A piece of you, then.” She straightens to her full height until she is as tall as he is. “I want a piece of your soul. The goodness of it. The warmth and comfort, for here, I am so very cold. That is my price, little king. For that, I will give you the girl.”

I try and fail to shake my head. No. I might not fully understand, but a piece of his soul, his goodness . . .

I will him to look at me. To let me go—

“Anton,” she says, pacing to him. She brackets his cheeks with her hands. A warm, cerulean glow radiates from her palms. Her voice softens like a lover as she says, “Would you not wish to give me something of yourself?”

I don’t understand what she’s doing. Some kind of power, and to my horror, his eyes flutter shut.

He sways on his feet, as if he might lean into her.

As if she has some hold over him, some allure he’s barely resisting.

“I would,” he breathes, his hand inching upward toward her own. “Of course I would.”

Anton! Voicelessly, I scream his name, over and over—

His eyelids fly open, as if jolting from a trance, and fury lights her gaze. She dashes a hand in my direction. A sleepy fog whisks over me then, but I fight to stay here. To listen, observe, even if I can do nothing . . .

“What, then?” Anton says. “You plan to turn her into soul sludge if I don’t agree?”

“I will not offer twice.” With that, she curls her fingers. A gathering of air coils around me like a chain.

“Wait.”

Moranya pauses, the hint of a smirk curling her lips. She does not lower her hand. “Do we have a deal, then? A piece of you, for her?”

“Would I still be myself?” he asks.

“Yes or no, Anton?”

“My brother,” he says. “Did you make a deal with him?”

“There is nothing in Illian Orvere that I desire.”

“What are you planning then? Are you bringing Eremis back?”

Eremis.

The prophecy.

From Beauty foretold, a trap unfolds,

A return to the living, a plight of souls.

Moranya’s brows notch in confusion. “Why would I do that?”

“Come now, we know each other better than this,” Anton prods. “You dislike the Fates. You would prefer us all under your dominion, would you not?”

“As much as I love our exchanges, and truly I do,” she says, “I tire of your interrogation. The deal, Anton. Yes or no. Accept now, or lose her.”

A jewel in His palm, a path divine.

“Wait—”

“Going once,” she says, and I feel myself being squeezed, constricted . . .

“Moranya—”

With the Fate of Morta, He will align.

“Twice.”

“All right,” he cuts in, his gaze traveling back over me. I try to shake my head, jerk every muscle to no avail. Without his goodness—

The prophecy.

It isn’t about Illian, or even my father.

It’s about Anton.

Anton.

“Give me one day,” he relents, and my heart seizes. “One day with my court, before you claim that piece of me for yourself. Then we have a deal.”

No, I try once more. No —

Her smile is a wicked, lovely thing. “How long I have waited for you.”

A blink, and then I feel myself fall.