Page 1 of To Dance with Death

Prologue

He stands underneath a dome of starlight.

I watch him from a distance, through the open window of my room. Silky warm air flutters the drapes softly against my skin until a gust pushes them all the way against the bed.

But I can’t pry my gaze from Anton, there on the balcony of his lone, isolated tower, staring up at the heavens as if he could escape into them.

He looks like a figure from lore, as he always has. A dark robe drapes over his shoulders, falling open at the chest, and moonlight silvers the slope of his cheeks, the downward tilt of his plush lips. Such an odd, ill-fitting expression on him; he does not belong in frowns.

He does not notice me.

It feels like pressure on a bruise to see him this way. Like the drag of nails against an open wound, the pain of it stinging through the lace of my nerves. Because he will never notice me again. Not the way he did before.

I am nothing to him now.

Three weeks.

Three weeks have passed since I woke from Morta’s Lair only tofind that Anton was long gone. Ripped from my grasp—and I from his heart. Moranya’s price for saving my life.

And now he’s secluded. Guarded, as if he were some kind of criminal.

That was his final request to Queen Sadira, whom I know will honor it. He said we cannot allow him to be fodder for such a dreadful prophecy—one that promised destruction and death. He said he’d rather die.

He would sooner take Morta’s hand once and for all.

Even so, I long to run to him. To throw my arms around his neck. To breathe our past into his ear. To remind him—if only I could.

But I tried that. We even attempted to show him thestills—the images caught on panes of glass that he himself captured at the Gathering—as proof of what transpired. Such is Morta’s curse, however. It keeps the truth sealed behind my teeth, so that any attempt to speak of the past clogs my airway. It prevents him from seeing anything in thestillsbut an empty glass pane. It keeps us from telling him the true story—any of us.

It took us some time to fully understand what was done to him. That she had scrubbed clean any notion of the love he was allowing to take shape—which in turn shaped who he became. He remembers the Gathering so differently, as if Moranya reframed the events in his mind. He believes that his friends betrayed him. He thinks Gustav and the queen worked behind his back to unseat him from Miridran’s throne. And I—

I have been erased from his memory altogether.

And it wasn’t just me, as we had thought. Anyone he ever cared for was stripped from him in different ways. Love became betrayal, leaving only a hollow bitterness in its place. To make matters worse, the belief that his friends betrayed him is reinforced by the fact that he’s here, seemingly imprisoned, with Gustav reigning over Miridran in his place.

I am still unable to fathom how I came to matter to him in such a profound way—that he would sacrifice a piece of himself for me.That any notion of love that might have formed has now soured, leaving only resentment in its wake.

In turn, I have cried my share of tears.

But we must honor what he wished of us all before Moranya’s curse. He laid out his plans as best he could during his one day—including Gustav’s role as regent. And we will use thestillshe gathered to prove my father’s corruption.

After, I will find a way to keep my promise.

I will save him.Somehow.

At least I know he is surrounded by those who love him. The queen, her sons. Then there’s the shadow outside his tower, standing sentinel, never resting.

Basile.

It’s the sight of his beloved captain of the guard—of the dedication he shows as he resolutely refuses to leave Anton’s door—that steels my resolve, even as my soul rebels at the thought of leaving him.

I know Basile will watch over him. Even now, save for a helm, the man is decked fully in armor—including pads of leather and sea glass—despite the Razami heat, sweat beading along the brown skin of his brow and along his neck underneath his thick, ornamented braids. But he does not waver. I know it’s out of love.

With a breath, I duck out from between the flowing drapes and tuck the last of the warm clothes Queen Sadira provided for me into my carpet bag—woolen gowns and scarves, fur-lined leather gloves. Thick leggings. I’ll need them, for it is always cold in Brisendale.

That’s where we are headed.

Home.