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“Show her to a room,” the Death God instructs the girl, who turns toward me.

A ghost, I realize, despite having never seen one myself before. Her robes hang in gray tatters over her bony body, her waist-length hair is uncombed and blocking half her face, and her skin is as translucent as parchment paper. She has no pupils. Her eyes are pure white, making it impossible to tell where exactly she is looking.

“Which room, my lord?” she asks. Her voice is hoarse and strangely distant, as though she is speaking from the other end of the palace.

“Any room,” the Death God says. “I do not care.”

“Yes, my lord.” The ghost bows, yet the movement is stiff, her back bending just enough for her to lower her head. When she straightens again, she beckons toward me with four fingers. Her thumb is missing. Severed. The mortals have always been as inventive with their torturing techniques as their music and poetry. “Follow me.”

As we move deeper into the palace, I begin to see why the Death God had not bothered to choose a specific room for me. They are all the same: the same inkstone walls, the same single bed with black satin sheets to match. There are no ornaments, no flowers, not even a chair on which to sit or a patterned rug to soften the floors. The chambers are pure practicality, designed for the dead or the dying.

Then it occurs to me, with a gurgle of hysteria, that I now belong in the latter category.

What the Heavens have decided, the Death God had said. The will of the Heavens is a force greater than even the Celestial Emperor. It is what forms the governing laws of our world, what makes us into being and unmakes us eventually. It is also what my parents had refused to accept. Bargaining with fate, stealing back time, changing your path or the path of others—these are exactly the kind of things that lead to your exile from the Celestial Realm.

I really am my parents’ daughter, after all.

The unexpected thought trembles through me. But I am not repeating their mistakes. I am not trying to alter the fate of thousands of mortals, I reason with myself. Only mine. And if my fate really were so set in stone, then I wouldn’t be alive right now. For all I know, perhaps the Death God was lying. Or perhaps he had misread the sign from the Heavens, and I will be able to prove him wrong. This possibility emboldens me a little, steadies my steps as I walk through the door to my new confined quarters. I may have less power than I want, but I have more power than the other gods believe.

Now I just need to formulate my escape plan.

This turns out to be more difficult than I’d hoped. After showing me the way, the ghost does not leave. Instead, she stations herself just outside the door. There are more ghosts haunting the halls, their eyes blank, their faces empty. Many still bear the scars of what had killed them: silver lines slicing through their throats, dents in the backs of their skulls, black blood trickling out the corners of their lips, ragged holes gaping through their robes.

I cannot risk sneaking my way past them. My lord—that was what the ghost called the Death God. They must serve him; perhaps they are even controlled by him. Our academy’s unit on the underworld had been extremely limited, covered in only thirty pages compared to the eight-hundred-and-something pages on the lore of the Celestial Realm, and the tutor had delivered those lectures in a perfunctory manner, eager to move on to the general skills section, like teleportation and enchantments. He’d made it clear that even mentioning the word death within the classroom was inauspicious. Few things make immortals as uncomfortable as the idea of mortality. None of this information is relevant to us anyway, someone had remarked on the unit—it was likely Hanchen, who was never afraid to speak up in class—and I had privately agreed with him at the time. If only I could go back, pore over my notes, convince the tutor to delve deeper into the subject instead of overexplaining for the thirtieth time how to move objects with our minds. The most I can recall now about the ghosts is that they are created from lingering resentment. They’re the souls who are tethered to the earth by anger or grief so intense it gives them form, though not flesh, the ones who refuse to move on through to the Yellow Springs.

But even if I could slip my way around the ghosts, I cannot depend on my magic either. An invisible barrier has been erected around the palace. When I try to feel my way along it or direct my power toward it, I am hit with a force as impenetrable as a brick wall. Another location, then. Somewhere outside, if I can convince the Death God to let me leave, however briefly.

The threads of my idea weave together as I sit alone in the dark chambers, my hands clasped on my lap, my knees pressed against the cool, unyielding floor. Everything happens inside my head. I have nothing to do but watch the snow and trace out the shape of my own shadow. It is one of those times where I almost envy the mortals. In moments of desperation, they have someone to pray to, a higher power to believe in. But who does a god pray to? Where am I to store my faith? I can only trust myself, my will to survive, my centuries of experience, and my strength.

So when dinner appears in my room, I gladly accept the mahogany tray and set it down on the stone in front of me.

Using the small spoon provided, I examine each of the items carefully: the red bean cakes cut into perfect circles; the gold osmanthus jelly with goji berries suspended inside it, like tiny rubies trapped in amber; the fried pork belly slices set neatly atop a bowl of steaming white rice. Once I am sure there is no strange coloring or scent to indicate poison, I bring the spoon to my lips and eat. Bite by bite, dish by dish, plate by plate, even though my stomach is tied into knots. It helps that the food is delicious, the flavors far richer and more delicate than what I might have expected.

Slowly, I can feel my exhaustion dissipating like smoke in the sun, the air around me humming to life.

It is true that gods can survive without any water or sustenance, but a warm meal helps us replenish our powers faster—and I’ll need all the power I have for tomorrow morning.

Death arrives perfectly on time the next day.

Though there are no sunsets or sunrises in the Night Realm, only the blue-white fall of snow from a lightless sky, I have been wide-awake for hours, counting my breaths to keep myself from losing my mind. At three thousand breaths, he knocks on my door.

I take my three-thousand-and-first breath, letting it fill my lungs and force out my fear, before responding with false calm, “Come in.”

The door does not open. But I already know to expect this, and I barely even flinch when a shadow sweeps across the room, the Death God appearing before me. I’d hoped that yesterday’s shock had distorted my first impression of him, exaggerated his perilous beauty and power, but he is the same. There is no hint of softness whatsoever in his features, and over his raven robes, he wears the cold indifference of a deity who has already peered past all the world’s miseries.

“You have learned to knock,” I remark. “That is impressive.”

He appears unmoved by my observation. “Don’t grow accustomed to it. I only thought to take such measures in case you were disrobed.”

“Oh, how thoughtful.”

“I assure you I am not.”

I lean against the closest wall. “Does sarcasm die the moment it sees you too?”

His eyes narrow. “You mock me?”

“I thought you might appreciate the novelty of it.”