Chapter one
Death is easy.
There is relief in an end. Comfort in the finite knowledge that no matter what has happened before, it is done now. Life contains no such mercy for those left behind. There are only bruised knees and bloody knuckles; only pushing on as the world crumbles.
Life is agony, and though I should be accustomed to the pain, I’ve never been adept at tolerating it for long. I’ve always been too quick to escape rather than learning to bear its edge. But in the year since I made the decision to anchor myself to Letum, I’ve had no choice but to endure.
Even if I wasn’t trapped for eternity in the land of dreams—even if I could run to the ends of the universe—there would be no escape. This agony is buried in my bones.
I feel it now as I trail through the Hollows beside Adira, my hand gripping at my chest in an ineffectual effort to relieve the pressure. How had I ever thought heartbreak is somethingempty when it is too full to bear? Pressing against my ribs and lungs, restricting every breath I take.
The Princess of the Wilds begins to hum loudly as we emerge from the mouth of the narrow stone staircase. I jerk my thoughts back into my control with a sheepish glance in her direction.
“Sorry,” I mutter, a flush rising to my cheeks. “My thoughts get away from me down here.”
“Perhaps because they’re easier to hear beneath the silence of the earth,” Adira replies dreamily, a knowing smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “You know how the stone echoes. You can never be sure whether a sound will travel for miles or be swallowed in the tunnels.”
Though I’ve become accustomed to the ominous way Adira speaks over the past year, today, the words gather in my chest, boiling along with the rest of my unease. The tunnel broadens, and we emerge at the edge of the vast underground city, the Hollows sprawling around us in a multitude of circular layers.
When we first ventured beneath the earth to the former lair of the Strayed, it had been a desolate place. The air itself reeked of ruin, like the stone had absorbed the centuries of horror conducted within its dark womb. The grand temples and opulent manors carved into the obsidian rock lay crumbling and desolate, their weakened remains nearly lost to the depths of the videntis, the giant chasm at the center of the city. The streets were cracked, littered with waste and bones and rubble, and the detailed murals that decorated every surface of the city hundreds of year ago, had been smeared with blood and other unsightly substances.
After months of work, the pixies have reclaimed their hallowed home. The streets have been cleared, the stonework painstakingly restored to its former gothic beauty on the buildings lining the videntis. The mournful silence thick with centuries of agony has given way to the soft whirring of wings,the chime of high voices and the ring of deceivingly sweet laughter.
When the pixies returned, the only color had been the copper-crust of blood, but now, the Hollows glows with a multitude of hues. Iridescent moths flutter aimlessly over the videntis, their white wings reflecting the golden glow of lanterns hung around the city. Moss carpets the distant ceiling casting varying shades of blue over the bustling streets. Windows cut into every outer wall reveals the violet sea beyond, sending fractal waves of shadows and light shimmering over quaint stone gardens and magnanimously carved monuments.
The most vibrant of the colors is that of the lush green vines crawling over nearly every surface of the Hollow City.
For the first time in centuries, the morphellia vines are healthy. The Aeternalis had mistreated them into near extinction, and they would have died out entirely, if not for the brave pixies that risked their lives smuggling a handful of seeds out. In the year since I anchored myself to the island, lifting the curse of death and returning dreams to the mainland, the seeds have flourished into mature vines.
I reach out my fingers to lightly cup one of the closed golden buds. It relieves the pressure in my chest, if only minutely, because it is proof that despite everything—despite my rage and heartbreak—I succeeded where I’d failed for so long.
For when the vines finally bloom, as they do at midnight once a year, it will signal the island’s full healing. The pixies will be able to harvest the dust, a physical magic that grants the gift of flight to those sprinkled with it. And not just flight of the body, but of the mind—a single dose helps any who’ve lost their ability to dream, lighting a newfound hope in their chest.
No child will ever feel as my sister Celie had again. With every arduous step, the connection between Letum and the mainland deepens, the symbiosis tilting further toward its natural balance.I have driven toward it with ruthless intention, working for the day I will finally be able to take a breath; finally be able to not use everything in me to feed the island.
Every bit of magic, every bit of energy—I’ve given all of it in my single year as queen.
When the island is self-sustainable, I’ll be at my full power, able to keep the wards open so that whoever needs the land of dreams will be able to find it.
A familiar pink-haired pixie darts out from inside the nearest temple, an elaborate structure spanning three stories. Chrys’ translucent wings flicker at her back as she dips into a quick bow, her violet eyes nearly the same shade as the sea churning against the windows.
“Your Majesty,” she intones, the honorific chafing against my skin. “There was no need to come all the way here for my report. I could have met you at the Pixie’s Hollow.”
“Oh no,” Adira replies airily. “We aren’t here for a report today. We’re here to avoid our own thoughts.”
I shoot her a hot glare, releasing an exasperated breath.
The princess hums in amusement. “I’m sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. “Were we choosing denial today? I’ll try harder to keep up.”
Chrys smiles cheekily, her razor-sharp incisors winking in the lantern light. “The rum at the tavern would be a most adequate distraction, if that’s what you’re after.”
I shift uncomfortably, having no desire to delve into the countless reasons drinking would be a terrible choice. The utmost among them being the loosening of the convictions I’ve held so tight for the past year, and my unfortunate ability to open a ward to any world I please.
“Working is a…a healthier…coping tool than drinking myself into oblivion at 9 in the morning.”
Chrys shrugs and gives me a pitying look as if I’m no fun, which to her, I’m probably not. In the months I’ve spent working to restore the Hollows beside the pixies, I’ve observed their proclivity toward merriment, no matter what time of the day. “If you say so. I’ll leave you to it, Your Majesty.”
“Just Willa,” I mutter, but another pixie has caught her attention and she’s already flitting away, her feet floating over the ground, her wings humming at her back.
