Chapter Eight
The world is lapis blue, like a permanent dusk.
The atmosphere sifts before me in sheets—a sparkling, iridescent breeze that is neither cold nor hot, and rather like a whisper. I feel it move through me, coursing through my very blood. It’s all I see until my vision clears, as if adjusting to this place.
And slowly, Morta’s Lair—so startlingly real—makes itself known.
I stand high on a hill beneath which lies an enormous, well-lit expanse.
It rolls out like sand glittering across a sea of dunes, with buildings, mansions, and promenades—sprawling and decadent—made of dark stone and iron so intricate it looks like lace.
The structures only grow, too, as they spread up the side of a mountain range—transforming into grand mansions and palaces at the top.
I spin around, expecting to find Illian behind me, but I am alone. Perhaps he will be looking for me now that I am here. The thought makes me queasy.
A flicker above pulls my gaze to the sky.
There are no constellations, no moons, but rather an aurora. Bands of cerulean, emerald, and lavender—bright gold, even, in some places—shimmer in tiers before winging down to halo a sprawling palace crowned across several of the mountain’s higher peaks.
This palace is like nothing I’ve ever seen—dark blue stone with a veined, prismatic sheen.
Great walls rimmed in gold, open arches, sprawling walkways and bridges sparkling with lights—it’s otherworldly in a way that even the Palace of Anell couldn’t achieve, even as spectacular as it was.
The size alone makes Anton’s summer home look like a mere thumbprint on a canvas.
Find Moranya, I repeat to myself. Make a deal—somehow.
I inhale a steadying breath, only to find that it’s anything but. The air is denser here, thicker even than fog. I draw in a lungful. It’s sweet—almost sickly so—and syrupy. I feel instantly ill.
My physical form was not made for this realm. Anxiety sets my heart into a vicious flutter at the effort of simply existing in this strange atmosphere, but I can’t dwell on that now.
I pull a lip between my teeth, charting my course.
I’m already halfway up one of the mountains.
Just over a small hill is a gate into what looks like a city.
Upon its downward slope, a river slides like honey along the streets, emptying into a sea far beyond.
In the other direction, tiers of buildings layer upward, the most luxurious stacked high along a set of hills at the base of the palace—that decadent sprawl of agate stone, glowing under the aurora’s fringe.
I can do this. I pull Sadira’s words to the forefront of my mind, cementing them on my tongue once more. This time, you will not be a powerless criminal, a damsel in distress. You will be a threat.
Yes, that’s the reminder I needed.
Not a damsel, not a victim, but a threat to anyone who might try to take Anton away from us—even if that person is Death herself.
I take a tentative step toward a road at the base of the hill—
Only to slow immediately, my knees quaking with the effort. Even walking is far more difficult than it should be. I hadn’t been imagining the weight of the wind, the way my lungs already seem to burn. The air is indeed thicker here, almost as dense as water. So dense my bones hurt trying to move.
A mortal in a land made for souls.
Had I thought about it, I might have expected the opposite—to be too heavy and solid for a diaphanous world. Perhaps it is just this world’s way of showing me that I am wrong, that I do not belong.
I steel myself. This is not unlike when Illian first yanked me from my cell after all those years, when I had to adapt to my new limitations, the failings of my body.
But I have survived this change before. New or not, different or not, pain will not defeat me.
It will not keep me from saving Anton. It won’t stop me from giving my all to reverse the prophecy, to stop my father.
I won’t let it.
I drag in another heavy breath, let my lungs settle with it, then plunge ahead toward the city. As I move, my hair drifts about, almost like it’s floating—except not quite.
It is relatively quiet here, the buildings faintly lit, some commotion from within. It’s a bit unsettling—though I don’t get the sense that I’m in danger, exactly. It reminds me of taking a stroll in the commoner streets of Galan, near Illian’s palace, at night.
Then another tier of the city opens by way of a bridge.
Here spills of light pour between arches and from windows in a multitude of colors—gold, violet, crimson, silver, though everything still has that lapis tint, as if I’m peering through a stained-glass window.
Those same baubles of light—like a chrysalis lit from within—illuminate walkways and alleys where figures drift to and fro.
Stairs filigree around structures, iron silvered under the glint of the aurora.
And I get my first glimpse of the souls. They stroll along the gleaming walkways like fireflies, beneath towering structures wedged together and glowing from within.
There’s an ethereal quality to the souls, too, like a sheen of starlight ever-so-subtly pearlescent on their skin.
Otherwise they look mortal. Solid, even.
There’s a woman with long, flowing curls the color of midnight, a few shades deeper than her complexion, her dress a dark, flowing swath that stretches to her calves.
Behind her trails a group of men, each liveried in similar loose attire—something softer than linen, knotted with loops and glimmering cordage.
In fact, everyone seems fitted in finery that looks dreamier, softer, than our mortal attire, near weightless in the way it moves with whatever strange gravity exists in this place.
For now, I keep to the shadows as much as I can.
Then comes a melody unlike any I’ve ever heard, faint as a whisper but lovely in a way I can’t describe. I follow the sound, as do more souls, until we become a congregation. There’s laughing and jostling, so human-like.
I study my surroundings as I move. There are shops on either side of me, like a grand plaza, stretching out for several blocks.
Bakeries, art studios, cafés—everything I might find in Miridran—and all of it open, myriad scents wafting about.
Spices I can’t name. Flowers I don’t recognize, crowding over windows; blue vines flourishing along latticework and windowsills.
Small gatherings linger on upper floors and on narrow balconies crammed with guests, a teasing of jaunty music overlapping the melody I still follow.
Fatigue weakens my knees, my legs tired to the point of faltering. Still, I push on, following the music as it grows—a symphony that stirs beneath my breastbone. But my thoughts shudder as I approach a large gate, its doors open to the meandering crowd.
Underneath a final arch is the highest part of the city, which lies at the base of the palace.
Here the buildings are taller, finer, carved from salt and marble and glittering stone, the scale and grandeur heightened.
I wonder how status is determined here; surely all the souls would choose to live in these finer parts if they were allowed to do so.
But then I notice what I didn’t before, there in the shadows: a few souls, keeping away from the rest, liveried in dark, frayed fabric like the garb Illian wore, their heads hanging low in defeat.
What did they do to deserve their rags? So many questions itch at my mind, but I swallow, forcing myself to move along.
Until one of them screams.