Moritas lowers her head and closes her eyes. To my side, the others now materialize out of the black mist. Raffaele, Lucent, Maeve. Magiano. I want to step forward, aching to go to them, to him . . . but all I can do is look on. They, too, seem to be in a trance.
“What do you want, in order to fix this?” I whisper. I know the answer, but somehow, I cannot bring myself to say it.
Moritas opens her eyes again. Her voice echoes in unison with her siblings. Your powers. Relinquish them, and you shall all be returned to the living realm. Give them to us, and the world will be healed.
In order to repair the world, we must hand back our powers. We will be the last of the Young Elites.
The whispers rear in my head, clawing, hooking deep into my flesh. No. I cry out from the pain. How dare you, they roar. After all we’ve done for you. How dare you think of life without us. You cannot survive without our help. Have you forgotten what it feels like to have us taken from you? Don’t you remember?
I do. The memory of Violetta wrenching away my power now hits me so hard that I take an unsteady step back. It feels a hundred times worse than I’d remembered, even—as if someone had ripped into the hollow of my chest, closed a fist around my beating heart, and tried to pull it out. I tremble at the pain. It is unbearable.
And for what? To protect the rest of the world? You owe them nothing; you rule them. Return to your palace and continue your reign.
It is such a tempting offer.
“I cannot do this,” I say to Moritas as my voice falters. “I cannot give you my power.”
Then you will die here. Moritas raises her arms. If you offer your power, willingly, you may step out of our realm and back into your mortal world, alive. Your powers cannot return with you. Each of you must do this.
Each of us. If we all give up our powers, we will be allowed to return to the living world.
The landscape around us is engulfed in darkness. I take a deep breath, filling myself with it, and shake at the feeling. The power within me, all the darkness I have ever felt, and all the darkness that I have ever been able to call upon, pale in comparison to the power of the darkness from the goddess of Death. Moritas wields a million, billion infinite threads all at once, and under the terrible influence of her power, I can see in one glance all of the suffering that has occurred since the beginning of time. The visions swallow me whole.
I see the fires that created the world, the great ocean that existed before the gods created land. There is the descent of Joy to the mortal world, and the first spread of the blood fever. It sweeps through the villages and towns and kingdoms, infecting the living with its touches of immortality, killing many, scarring a cursed few . . . gifting immortal powers to even fewer. I see the screams and the moans of terror from Kenettra. I see the malfettos who burn at the stake, and then the Elites, who fight back. I see me.
I see the darkness that the world inflicted upon us, and we onto them.
Poor child, Moritas says. Beside her, the forms of Caldora and Formidite watch me silently. You would die with darkness clutched in your hands?
No. I wrap my arms around myself and look behind me desperately, as if someone might come to save me. Violetta. She had been there for me, once. We had loved each other, once.
Moritas tilts her head in my direction curiously. You are bound to your sister.
And then, something occurs to me. We had to enter the realm of the dead with all of our alignments, together, even those who had perished on the way. Teren. Violetta. If we return our powers to the gods, then we are given our lives in exchange, can walk out of this immortal realm and return to the living. Does that mean . . . if we do give up our powers, if I give up mine, that all of us who had come to offer up our powers can return to the mortal world? That even Teren would live again?
That Violetta could return? Would this bring my sister back?
The scene changes again. I am a child, walking hand in hand with Violetta. I am lying in bed, losing my fight with the blood fever. I watch my hair color shift from dark to light, settling into silver. I see my scarred face, watch myself shatter my mirror into a million pieces. Then I see my future. I am Queen of Kenettra, ruler of sea, sun, and sky. I sit alone on my throne, looking out over my empire. The sight stirs my ambition, and the whispers in my head coo. Yes, this is what you want. This is all you have ever wanted.
But then I see myself curled on the marble floor of the throne room, sobbing, surrounded by illusions that I cannot erase. I look on in horror as I chase my own sister out of the room, as I hold a knife to her throat and threaten her life. I see myself lashing out at Magiano, ordering his execution after he tries to stop me from hurting myself. I see myself sobbing, wishing I could take back what I’ve done. I look on as I lock myself in my own chambers, screaming for the illusions that claw with their long black talons to leave me alone. I stay locked away forever, mad and terrified, until, finally one night, I have my nightmare once more.
I wake to the horror of it, over and over again, only to be lost in another layer of the dream. I run to the door, trying in vain to keep the darkness outside. I wake, and do the same thing again. I cry out for help. I wake. I push uselessly against the yawning door. I wake. I cycle again and again—except, this time, I cannot pull myself out of it. I cannot wake up in reality. Instead, I cycle until I finally can no longer keep the door closed and it swings open. On the other side of it is a never-ending darkness, the gaping mouth of the Underworld, Death come to claim me. I try once again to shut the door, but the darkness pushes in. It bares its teeth at me. Then it lunges, and even as I try to shield myself, it tears me to pieces and devours my soul.
This would be my life.
I think of the pile of stones we had to leave behind in the mountains. I remember the feeling of my sister’s body cradled in my arms, of myself sobbing into her frozen hair, telling her over and over again that I am sorry, begging her not to leave me.
If I give my powers to the goddess of Death, if we all do, then perhaps, just perhaps, she will return my sister to me. Violetta might live again; perhaps we will all walk out of here. The possibility is fleeting, but it is there and it sends a shudder of wild hope through me. She might live. I can, at least, undo this one wrong. I can fix what I have broken between us.
And I can save myself.
Slowly, I rise to my feet. I am still afraid, but I lift my head high. The whispers in my head suddenly start to howl. They call to me, begging me not to leave them, hissing at me for my betrayal. What are you doing! they scream. Have you forgotten? Your father’s hands, beating at you—your enemies, laughing at you? The burning stake? This is life without power.
I stand firm against their onslaught. No, that is not my life without power. My life without power will be one of walking through a crowd without darkness tugging at my heart. It will be seeing Violetta in the living world, smiling again. It will be riding on the back of a horse with Magiano as we crest another mountain, searching for adventure. It will be a life without these whispers in my head. It will be a life without my father’s ghost.
It will be a life.
I look at Moritas. Then I reach deep within myself, grasp the threads that have entwined themselves around my heart since I was a child. I pull them away. And I relinquish them.
The whispers shriek.
At the same time, I see—somehow, I see—the others do the same. I see Magiano offering his power of mimicry to the immortal world; I see Raffaele sacrificing his connection; I see Lucent returning her mastery of wind; I see Maeve give up her right to the Underworld.