My boots sink into fresh snow that looks untouched for miles. A forest of frosted trees towers around us, their branches bare and layered with thick blankets of white. What freezes us all in our tracks, though, is the sight of the three moons in the night sky. They are enormous, great and golden and cold, covering half the sky, so large that I feel as if I could reach up and brush my fingers along their marble surfaces. Sheets of stars litter the sky, the constellations impossibly bright. We are close to the heavens here. As I stare, a curtain of faint green dances against the stars, undulating, appearing and disappearing in complete silence. I have never seen the night like this. It is as if the realm of the gods were reaching down to greet us here, and our mortal world yearning up in return.
“Gods,” Magiano gasps beside me.
We entered, after all.
How is this possible? We shouldn’t have. It should have killed us. Beside me, Raffaele stares in astonishment.
When I look over my shoulder, I notice Teren. Like the rest of us, he is frozen in place at the sight. His pale eyes are very wide, and his mouth is open. There are tears in his eyes, and frozen streaks on his face. I can hear him whispering a prayer as he stares, so moved by the beauty of this entrance of the gods.
We make our way through the untouched land. The pulse of the origin is a steady beat now, guiding each of us along. The snow crunches softly under our boots. I tremble in the cold. The whispers in my head burst into chaotic voices with every step I take, growing stronger the closer we get to the origin. I try again to keep them at bay, but gradually, they start to drown out the silence around me, until I can’t hear even our footsteps or our breathing anymore. The whispers speak nonsense now, in a language too ancient for me to understand. The trees in this forest seem to blur and shift every time I blink, and I rub my eye, trying to make myself focus.
Now and then, something flashes across my vision. A shape, a figure, I’m not sure. Other times, I see abandoned houses, covered with snow and broken glass. Each time, I shake my head and cast it out of my mind, telling myself to focus. I can control my illusions. This is my power, even if we are standing in the realm of the gods.
Another shape darts between the trees and vanishes. I stop to look for it. No use—it’s already gone. I look back at Magiano. “There is something in the forest,” I whisper.
He frowns, then glances at the gaps between the trees.
And at that moment, I stop. My stare goes up to the trees. I halt in my tracks. Beside me, Magiano turns and gives me an alarmed look. “What is it?” he asks.
But I can’t answer him. All I can do is stare at the dead bodies hanging from the trees.
They hang from the branches all around us, dangling by their necks from ropes. Their bodies look gray, their faces ashen, and as I look on in horror, I start to recognize each one of them. The one closest to me is my father. His chest is skeletal as always, caved in, and drops of blood stain the white snow underneath him. Nearby is Enzo, his hair a deep, black scarlet, his neck broken, the same droplets of blood under his swaying body. Behind him is Gemma, her familiar face still half covered by her purple marking. There is the Night King of Merroutas, whom I’d once run through with a sword. There is Dante, his face contorted in pain. There are Inquisition guards I’ve killed, soldiers from foreign lands I’ve conquered, and rebels I’ve executed for daring to defy my rule. And there is my sister, my latest victim.
They are all here, their eyes open and trained on me, their lips cracked, expressions solemn. The whispers in my head grow to a roar, and I realize that the voices have always been their voices, the voices of those I have killed, growing and growing over the years as more have died.
What wolf? You’re a little lamb. This whisper was Dante’s voice.
Broken so easily. Enzo.
The dead cannot exist in this world on their own. Gemma.
You do not leave until I say so. The Night King of Merroutas.
Go ahead. Finish the job. My father.
All this time, the voices have been the whispers of the dead, growing in number, taunting me, haunting me, driving me to madness for their blood that stains my hands.
I stumble backward with a choked gasp. Magiano rushes to catch me before I fall in the snow. “Adelina!” he exclaims. The others stop to look at me too. “What’s happening? What are you seeing?”
“I see everyone,” I sob. “Enzo. Gemma. My father. My sister. They’re all here, Magiano. Oh gods, I can’t do this. I can’t go on.” My knees give way, and I sink, still unable to tear my gaze from the sight. This isn’t real, the rational part of me tries to say. All an illusion. Just an illusion. Just a nightmare. This isn’t real.
Except it is real. Except all of these people really are dead. And they are dead because of me.
“Don’t make me go in there,” I whisper, clinging to Magiano’s arms as he leans over me.
Raffaele approaches and kneels in the snow beside me, while farther ahead, Maeve, Lucent, and Teren look on. Raffaele takes one of my hands. As I struggle to regain control over my power, he begins to use his. I can feel his threads intertwining with my heart, seeking the panic and fear within me and pushing it gently down. My desperate stare goes from the hanging bodies to Raffaele’s beautiful face, his olive skin, and his black hair framed by snow, the ice lining his long lashes, the green and gold of his eyes.
“Breathe, mi Adelinetta,” he whispers. “Breathe.”
I try to do as he says. Raffaele is not Violetta—he cannot save me from my power. But slowly, gradually, his soothing begins to smooth over the raging tides of energy in my chest that threaten to drive me mad. I feel the energy settling, and with it, the bodies begin to fade. They look like ghosts, translucent and floating. Then they turn so faint, I can no longer see them. My breath fogs in the air. My limbs feel weak, like I’ve just been swimming for hours. I lean heavily against Magiano.
Finally, Raffaele stops. He looks exhausted too, as if it were harder to work his magic here against mine. I take a deep breath, then nod and draw away from Magiano. “I’m all right,” I say, trying to convince myself of it. “The energy here overwhelms me.”
Raffaele nods once. “It pulls at me too,” he tells me gently. “In a million different directions. This is not an easy place to be, a realm between us and the gods.”
Lucent walks over to me and offers me her hand. I stare in surprise. When I take it, she helps me to my feet. Beside her, Maeve nods at me once. There is something lighting her face, a sudden recognition. “Your sister,” she says. “You said you saw her back there, as an illusion. A ghost of the dead.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“So that is why,” Maeve murmurs. “Of course.” She glances at Raffaele. “You said all of our alignments to the gods must be in the immortal realm in order for us to be here.” Maeve looks back at me. “We were able to enter without Violetta’s alignments.”
“Because her soul is already in the immortal world,” Raffaele finishes, understanding. His eyes soften at me. “In the Underworld.”
She is already here, I realize. And somehow, this thought sends a wild surge of hope through me. She is already here. Perhaps I can see her again.
“We can’t be far,” Maeve says, turning away from me and continuing again down the snowy path through the forest. “The pulse keeps getting stronger.”