Page 160 of A Dance of Lies

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?”