“Listen to them,” I whisper. “Listen, Darin.”

Your fault, Laia. The ghosts press up against the unseen border of the Waiting Place, their forms blending into one another to form a thick, choking mist. He’s close now.

“Who?” I move toward the trees, ignoring my brother’s protests. I’ve never entered the Forest without Elias by my side. I do not know if I can. “Do you speak of Elias? Is he all right?”

Death approaches. Because of you.

My dagger is suddenly slippery in my grasp. “Explain yourselves!” I call out.

My feet carry me close enough to the tree line that I can see the path Elias takes when he meets us here. I’ve never been to Elias and Shaeva’s cabin, but he’s told me that it sits at the end of this trail, no more than a league beyond the tree line. Our camp is here because of that path—it’s the fastest way for Elias to reach us.

“There’s something wrong in there,” I say to Darin. “Something’s happened—”

“It’s just ghosts being ghosts, Laia,” Darin says. “They want to lure you in and drive you crazy.”

“But you and I have never been driven mad by the ghosts, have we?” At that, my brother falls silent. Neither of us knows why the Waiting Place doesn’t set us on edge as badly as it does others, like the Tribes or Martials, all of whom give it a wide berth.

“Have you ever seen so many spirits this close to the border, Darin?” The ghosts appear to multiply by the second. “It cannot be just to torment me. Something has happened to Elias. Something is wrong.” I feel a pull that I cannot explain, a compulsion to move toward the Forest of Dusk.

I hurry to the tent and gather my things. “You don’t have to come with me.”

Darin’s already grabbing his pack. “Where you go, I go,” he says. “But that’s a big forest. He could be anywhere in there.”

“He’s not far.” That strange instinct pulls at me, a hook in my belly. “I am certain of it.” When we reach the trees, I expect resistance. But all I find are ghosts packed so densely that I can barely see through them.

He’s here. He’s come. Because of you. Because of what you did.

I force myself to ignore the spirits and follow the scanty trail. After a time, the ghosts thin out. When I look back, a palpable fear ripples through their ranks.

Darin and I exchange a glance. What in the skies would a ghost fear?

With every step, it is harder to breathe. This is not my first time in the Waiting Place. When Darin and I began the caravan raids a few months ago, Elias windwalked us across from Marinn. The Forest was never welcoming—but nor was it so oppressive.

Fear lashes at me, and I move faster. The trees are smaller here, and through the open patches, a clearing appears, along with the sloped gray roof of a cottage.

Darin grabs my arm, his finger on his lips, and pulls me to the ground. We inch forward with painstaking care. Ahead of us, a woman pleads. Another voice curses in a familiar baritone. Relief pours through me. Elias.

The relief is short-lived. The woman’s voice goes quiet. The trees shudder violently, and a blur of dark hair and brown skin shoots into view. Shaeva. She locks her fingers into my shoulder and drags me to my feet.

“Your answers lie in Adisa.” I wince and try to squirm away, but she holds me with a jinn’s strength. “With the Beekeeper. But beware, for he is cloaked in lies and shadow, like you. Find him at your peril, child, for you will lose much, even as you save us all—”

Her body is jerked away, dragged as if by an invisible hand back to the clearing. My heart thunders. Oh no, skies no—

“Laia of Serra.” I would recognize that ophidian hiss anywhere. It is the sea awakening and the earth shuddering away from itself. “Always appearing where you are not wanted.”

Darin cries a warning, but I stride forward into the clearing, caution overcome by rage. Elias’s armored form is pinned against a tree, every muscle straining against invisible bonds. He thrashes, an animal in a trap, fists clenched as the whole of his body leans toward the center of the clearing.

Shaeva kneels, black hair brushing the ground, skin waxy. Her face is unlined, but the devastation emanating from her feels ancient.

The Nightbringer, cloaked in darkness, stands above her. The sickle blade in his shadow hand glows, as if made of poison-dipped diamonds. He holds it with light fingers, but his body tenses—he means to use it.

A snarl erupts from my throat. I must do something. I must stop him. But I find I can no longer move. The magic that ensnares Elias has gripped Darin and me too.

“Nightbringer,” Shaeva whispers. “Forgive my wrong. I was young, I—”

Her voice fades to a choke. The Nightbringer, silent, brushes his fingers across Shaeva’s forehead like a father giving his benediction.

Then he stabs her through the heart.

Shaeva’s body seizes once, her arms windmilling, her body jerking up, as if yearning toward the blade, and her mouth opens. I expect a shriek, a scream. Instead, words pour out.

One piece remains, and beware the Reaper at the Gates!

The sparrows will drown, and none will know it.

The past shall burn, and none will slow it.

The Dead will rise, and none can survive.

The Child will be bathed in blood but alive.

The Pearl will crack, the cold will enter.