Page 162 of A Dance of Lies

“Anton,” she says, pacing to him. She brackets his cheeks withher hands. A warm, cerulean glow radiates from her palms. Her voice softens like a lover as she says, “Would you not wish to give me something of yourself?”

I don’t understand what she’s doing. Some kind of power, and to my horror, his eyes flutter shut. He sways on his feet, as if he might lean into her. As if she has some hold over him, some allure he’s barely resisting. “I would,” he breathes, his hand inching upward toward her own. “Of course I would.”

Anton!Voicelessly, I scream his name, over and over—

His eyelids fly open, as if jolting from a trance, and fury lights her gaze. She dashes a hand in my direction. A sleepy fog whisks over me then, but I fight to stay here. To listen, observe, even if I can do nothing . . .

“What, then?” Anton says. “You plan to turn her into soul sludge if I don’t agree?”

“I will not offer twice.” With that, she curls her fingers. A gathering of air coils around me like a chain.

“Wait.”

Moranya pauses, the hint of a smirk curling her lips. She does not lower her hand. “Do we have a deal, then? A piece of you, for her?”

“Would I still be myself?” he asks.

“Yes or no, Anton?”

“My brother,” he says. “Did you make a deal with him?”

“There is nothing in Illian Orvere that I desire.”

“What are you planning then? Are you bringing Eremis back?”

Eremis.

The prophecy.

From Beauty foretold, a trap unfolds,

A return to the living, a plight of souls.

Moranya’s brows notch in confusion. “Why would I do that?”

“Come now, we know each other better than this,” Anton prods.“You dislike the Fates. You would prefer us all under your dominion, would you not?”

“As much as I love our exchanges, and truly I do,” she says, “I tire of your interrogation. The deal, Anton. Yes or no. Accept now, or lose her.”

A jewel in His palm, a path divine.

“Wait—”

“Going once,” she says, and I feel myself being squeezed, constricted . . .

“Moranya—”

With the Fate of Morta, He will align.

“Twice.”

“All right,” he cuts in, his gaze traveling back over me. I try to shake my head, jerk every muscle to no avail. Without his goodness—

The prophecy.

It isn’t about Illian, or even my father.

It’s about Anton.