The light comes from millions of tiny, dangling beads of ice. They shimmer and twinkle, pulsing in a pattern, and they seem to gleam the strongest where we pass. For a moment, I forget my fear and just stand there, unable to tear my gaze away from their beauty.
“Ice faeries,” Raffaele says, his voice echoing to us from somewhere in front. “Tiny creatures of the north. They must have awoken at the ripple of our movement in the air. I have seen them described in the accounts of priests on their pilgrimages here. This is the place that travelers worship as the Dark of Night, but they go no farther.”
The glow lights our way, leading us along a trail painted by stardust.
Minutes pass. Hours. At some point, I feel the faint bite of a cold breeze against my face. We must be nearing the cave’s exit. I tense, wondering what lies on the other side. Beside me, Violetta’s ghost walks in and out of the shadows, faded and gray. The wind turns steady, until we round a curve in the cavern and find ourselves looking at an exit.
I suck in my breath at the glittering world of snow beyond it.
I have heard the myths about this place, the Dark of Night. But I am standing in front of it now, staring into an untouched, magical world. This is the entrance connecting our world with the gods. And we cannot enter without Violetta’s alignment, her link to empathy.
Raffaele stands at the entrance and reaches out a hand tentatively. He shudders, and so do I—the energy beyond this entrance is overwhelming, a million threads to every one in the mortal world, something so intense that I fear it may crush me if I dare to step through. When the priests come searching for this place, is this where they stop? Do they sit under the light of the ice faeries and admire the beads of ice dangling in the cavern? Perhaps mere mortals cannot even tell that this entrance is here. Perhaps the energy here is so strong it is lost on them.
Raffaele stands there for a long moment, hovering between one space and another. Then he looks at us. He is going to step through. “We are already ghosts,” he whispers. I open my mouth, wanting to stop him, then close it. He is right, as he always is. If this is how we must end, then so be it. Raffaele takes a deep breath, and I study his silhouette in this dim blue light, this magical realm, outlined in a halo as if for the last time. Beside me, Magiano nods and takes my hand. Maeve and Lucent stand together. Teren looks ahead without fear.
There is a space beside me where Violetta would have stood. Without her, I am less afraid of dying. Without her, the world is that much darker.
Raffaele steps through. And we follow.
It is said that the Dark of Night can be entered solely by those who have known and suffered true loss—that only through surviving such agony can a mortal understand what it is like to set foot inside a realm of the gods.
—Tales of Travelers to the Dark of Night, compiled by Ye Tsun Le
Adelina Amouteru
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.