Chapter 12 A row of vials lines the edge of my desk. Each one is filled with a heinous assortment of herbs that I am expected to swallow every three hours. Eli, more somber than usual but as insistent as ever, promised a stern scolding if he returned to find his tonics untouched. Then he drifted distractedly from my study, scribbling into his booklet. It has been less than twenty-four hours since Paedyn returned from that first Trial, wearing a bloody crown and displaying her wounds. Less than twenty-four hours since the several glasses of champagne I guzzled while awaiting her, trying to quiet the noise in my head. Less than twenty-four hours since Death showed her face, tugging at my weary soul. I rub at my bleary eyes. They hardly shut last night, not when every shadow could be Death's. Even now, I flick my gaze over the study in search of that chestnut hair. But not for the reason most glance over their shoulder, wondering if it is Death's gaze they feel on the back of their neck. Fear of one's fate is what makes Mara so elusive. Some are obsessed with finding her before she finds them. But it is not fear that drives me. It is the truth. Even fewer hours have separated me from my first exploration of Mother's room since her death. Father never let me within ten feet of it, as if my presence alone would mar her memory. And perhaps, for once, his cruelty was warranted. It was my life that brought about Iris's death all those years ago. Her bedroom was untouched, kept company only by a thick layer of dust. The jewelry box on her bedside table was unassuming. Though, the promise of tracing a ring that once clutched my mother's finger, or a necklace that hugged her closely, had me lifting the lid. But the love notes I found inside did not display my father's bold handwriting. No, they were inked with looping letters and a devotion Edric Azer wasn't capable of. I would know that curling penmanship by feel alone. My mother was having an affair with the king's Mind Reader. With my Mind Reader. Even the shiest whisper of an heir's illegitimacy can crumble a kingdom. And if I am a bastard, my real father is all that stands between me and my rule. I drum my fingers against the chipped edge of my desk. Mara has been avoiding me. And seeing that she is, in fact, Death, I should feel relieved. But between my fourth and fifth flute of champagne yesterday evening, I realized that her strange attachment to my soul could be useful. Death knows the dead-is the dead. With a sigh, I pull the gilded crown from my head. It would feel odd, wearing it as I reach for the silver letter opener hidden beneath strewn sheets of parchment. I'm not sure if what I'm about to do is brave, benevolent, or brutal. It's rather desperate, actually. Perhaps even teetering on the edge of something crazed and familiar. But my forced fits of coughing aren't drawing her out. It seems she needs something more convincing. Something closer to Death herself. I unsheathe the thin blade. It's dull, which provides an inkling of comfort. Though, that only makes piercing my skin all the more difficult. I rest the point above my heart. Take a deep breath. Impale the threads of my tunic. Push until I prick the skin beneath. Farther still and blood blooms. Pain sears beneath the blade's persistence- "What are you doing?" Mara has arrived. I've drawn Death from the shadows. The lack of emotion on her face clashes with the veiled urgency in her voice. She's draped in her usual black attire-tunic, pants, cloak. The auburn hair I've searched for falls effortlessly into the hood at her back. "Summoning you," I answer truthfully. "I wasn't sure it would work." "If you ask for Death, I answer." Her eyes flick to the patch of dark blood staining my navy tunic. "Your soul has already been marked. A blade to the heart is only begging me to steal it." "I'm not trying to die," I say quickly. "I'm only trying to get your attention." "You have my attention because you are dying." "Fine." The word is curt. I pretend my compliance is conditional, due only because it is what she wishes to hear. But it is so much worse-I believe her. I'm afraid Death herself can be trusted to know the imminence of mine. "So, help me before you steal my soul away." A shadow of surprise crosses her face. "You really aren't afraid of me, are you?" I set the letter opener back on the desk, careful not to drip blood onto my notes. "You don't look like something I should be afraid of." "No." She tilts her head. "Not in this form." I don't dwell on her words, because I wish for my lack of fear to remain. "Running from Death only wastes your life," I murmur. "I would rather face you head-on." "Hmm." She weighs my words carefully. "You Azers are just as bold as I remember." "So you do remember the Azers?" I inquire quickly. "All of them?" "Some more than others." Emotion flashes in her eyes. "But, yes, I remember every soul I drag to the Mors." "The Mors," I repeat, chewing on the foreign word. "What is that?" "It is where the dead reside." "Can the living go there?" I ask, sounding very much like the mad king I once was. The corner of her mouth curls into a soft smile. "The Mors is not a place that is found, or conquered, or coveted. It does not exist on your plane. Life may not cross over into Death's territory." I hold her gaze. "But could I?" That placid expression of hers never budges. "Is that what you want my help with?" "I need to speak with my mother." The words spew from me, laced with desperation. "I need to discover the truth about something, and she is the only one who can tell me. It is imperative that I speak with her. If I can go to the Mors-" "Iris Azer." I fall silent at the name. Mara speaks it as though she is reminiscing on a distant memory. "I haven't checked on her in at least a decade," she utters evenly. "She was one of the easy souls." My throat bobs. "Let me see her. Please." Death eyes me for a long moment. "I don't usually speak to the living about the afterlife they will face." "Then why are you here?" I retort breathlessly. "Why come to Ilya and haunt me? I'm still a living soul, after all." I run a hand through my hair, wincing at the shallow wound on my chest. "Why waste your time on someone you can't steal away just yet?" A faint line forms between her brows, a physical crack in her stoic facade. "Is Death not allowed to wonder about life? Stalk it, even?" Her gaze darkens. "Just because I am Death, it does not mean I fail to feel." I'm surprised by the pang of guilt that accompanies her words. "I'm sorry. I... I don't know anything about Death-you." I shut my eyes with a sigh. "I don't know anything about you." Mara stares at me long enough to catch one of my genuine coughs. It's more of a rasp, really, but I swallow the burning in my throat before it can swell. I watch as Death's gaze shifts from me to the row of vials across my desk. "Those won't help you." "I figured." "You cannot cheat Death." "I wouldn't dare try." "No, you wouldn't," she agrees. "But I could." My pounding heart quickens its pace. "What?" "You will need to die. Temporarily," she adds. "Like I said, only the dead can cross over." "And how do you know I'll only die temporarily?" It's a struggle to spit out the insanity. "You can bring me back?" Mara laces her fingers together. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not responsible for choosing who goes to the Mors and when. I only bring them there when Life grows tired of them." She drags her gaze over me. "Your time will come. But it is not now." I stand from my seat, head spinning. "So, how do I... die?" "I can stop your heart," she says plainly. "Give you a proverbial push from the tightrope of life. I can pull you back after a few minutes, but time does not exist within the Mors, so it may feel as though you are there for a long while." The absurdity of each word is only rivaled by the fact that I'm speaking to Death herself. I pace atop the worn rug, treading a path behind my desk. This goes beyond the actions of a mad king, beyond any sane thought at all. This is life and death and balancing somewhere in between. But I would risk anything to speak with my mother one last time. "What do you need me to do?" I ask sternly. Mara shifts her gaze to the floor. "Lie down and let me kill you." I appreciate her directness despite how threatening she sounds. So I stride past those worn armchairs and halt before the heated hearth. Glancing back at Death, I'm startled to find her right behind me. She still wears that flat expression, but I get the sense that her patience with me is wearing thin. That realization has me swiftly flattening to the floor, where I watch her loom above. My voice sounds suddenly small. "Why are you helping me?" She kneels at my side. "Curiosity." Any further questions are stifled when she places a hand on my chest. Her touch is cold, even through my bloodied tunic. But not in the way rain chills, or the stone walls cool in the winter. This is a lack of warmth, like a feeling of emptiness more than a sensation. I suppress my shiver when she says, "I don't have as much power outside the Mors. I usually remain within Death's territory. But in order to talk to you, the living, I crossed into this plane." "So, what are you saying?" I ask hesitantly. She looks down at me with those eyes that seem to behold everything at once. "To wake you up, I must remain here. That means you will explore the Mors alone." "Okay." I swallow. "As long as I'm alive for the ball." Slowly, she offers a final piece of instruction. "When you find who you are looking for, touch them, and they will be able to see you." I'm thoroughly concerned before my heart even stutters. It is a literal stalling of the organ. What a strange sensation, life failing. I gasp, but Death only pushes harder against my chest. The world begins to blur at the edges, growing dark. My heartbeat slows to a slothful pace. Everything is slipping away. I am drifting, drifting, drifting- Dark. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...