Page 80 of To Dance with Death

A decrepit thing, that lone shard of bone scraping the aurora, the view beyond little more than sand and ash.

He shoves the doors open.

There’s little save for the echo of his breath and the single bone-white spiral staircase that rises three stories beyond. Why she couldn’t be content to live on the bottom floor is beyond him.

Once a week, he’s obligated to climb these stairs. It was part of the agreement: to relay the happenings of the Realm of the Dead to Death herself. And after, he’d inevitably sit through Moranya’s routine pleas, only to deny her once again.

It isn’t that he wishes her ill. If anything, he’s simply sparing her from more pain.

The stairs flare into a wide landing halfway up the tower, and a glance to his right tells him that Moranya has been experimentingagain. And failing, what with the shards of glass scattered about. He shakes his head, approaching the final set of stairs, which end before a large, crescent door.

He finds her where he always does, draped over a divan, her arm hanging limp over the edge like she’s half deceased. Her attire reminds him of a traditional mourning gown stolen straight from the Miridran of old. Even her reflection is particularly dour in the large, gilded mirror that sweeps up into the steepled ceiling, her lips pulled down, eyes half lidded amid her floating spiral of dark blue hair.

He drops onto the wingback across from her. “Exceptionally morose today, my dear Moranya?”

“I am certain I shall liven up now that you are here.” She rises from her bench but does little more than pace to the window. “Come now, what news do you have for me, little king?”

After he relays the comings and goings of the realm—an interminable process, which she only half listens to—he attempts to take his leave, knowing she won’t let him.

“Anton.”

He pauses at the threshold, hand already curled around the iron handle. Souls—he’dalmostmade it out.

“Tell me. Has anyone new drawn your eye? I know you were especially fond of Dahlia for a time.”

“What’s it to you? Don’t tell me you’ve decided to care who I spend my time with.”

“Why wouldn’t I? Have I not proven myself a romantic at heart?”

For a moment, he wonders if she knows about Vasalie. But if she does, he doubts she’d let her stay. Not that he is feeling particularly pleased about their arrangement at the present.

“Romantic as you may be,” he ends up saying, “my dalliances are just that. Nothing of note.”

A lie—and she senses it. Her lips quirk, but whether in a frown or smile, he can’t tell. “A shame.”

“If there’s nothing else…” He pivots on his heel.

“You know there is,” she says before he can leave.

“And you already know my answer.”

“Andyouknow why I must ask you to reconsider. Now and every time—until you agree.”

“What makes you think I’ll ever say yes? I’d made it clear there was no hopebeforeaccepting your offer to act as your magistrate.”

“I understand that,” she says, slumping back onto the divan. “But we are something akin to friends, are we not? How can you watch me suffer like this? At the very least, I had hoped that by bringing you here, you would have come to understand my pain, if not the necessity of my request.”

He lets out a weary sigh. Truth be told, he’s not immune to her suffering. But he can’t very well let her destroy herself—and everyone else, for that matter—by repairing that Fates-damned mirror.

“You see as well as I do the problem with leaving things as they are,” she presses. “Surely you do—”

“Betrayal is not something that love can mend,” he cuts in. “Haven’t you come to understand that love is a flimsy, misguided notion? It’s fleeting, for one. And a manipulation used to bind someone to another’s will.”

“You don’t really believe that,” she says.

“How could I not? I am a scientist. I learn through observation and experience.” And he believes it now more than ever.

Something crosses Moranya’s face then. A pinch between her brows, the flattening of her lips. It almost looks like regret. But she says nothing, tilting her chin away.