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“Because the thread of light in your soul cannot be contained,” Willow says. “You are an anomaly, the very essence of life. If you die, that thread of light returns to the Eternal Tree, back into the world. Raven controls you through the link between a Regent and her patron god, yes, but do not forget that you have dominion over him, too. You are the source of his new power, and he cannot kill you if he wants to keep that.”

You are the source of his new power. This thought rises above some of my fear. Maybe it is the same comfort that science has always brought me—the realization that knowing things could grant me some semblance of control over my world, that I am not simply at the whims of someone else to be used and discarded.

I am not just Raven’s Regent, here solely for him to command. He needs me, too.

Charlotte looks between us all. “How’s she supposed to take on her own patron god?” she says. “You heard what she said about Thorn.”

“Thorn is dead,” Willow says, looking at me. “But the god of Lies is not.”

I still at her words. “You’re talking about Étienne,” I say.

“Gods may die,” she continues, “but the soul of a god, the thread of energy in them, is immortal. With the death of a god comes the rise of their Regent and understudy. That soul needs its new form.”

Étienne should be the new god of Lies. The realization muffles the world around me, and for a second, I can’t see anything except the final image of him staring at me with those stunned eyes, wild and determined, afraid to leave me behind.

“But he’s trapped,” Laine says, her eyes meeting mine. “His soul is inside the Eternal Tree now, lost with all other souls.”

My hands have balled into fists in my lap. “How do we free him?” I ask.

Willow narrows her eyes at me. “As Raven’s Regent,” she answers, “that power lies with you alone. Aside from the god of Death, only you have his ability to claim souls for the Eternal Tree.” She nods. “And you, with the first light of the universe in your soul, have the capacity to awaken them. To gift life.”

Life. The first light. Something deep in my chest stirs at the notion, and I shiver, frightened by its response. I am the equal and opposite of death. Within my soul is the very origin of life. If Raven can claim a soul, I can restore it.

Only I can save Étienne.

I have to find a way to get back to Raven’s estate, into the atrium and to the tree itself. I am the only one who can set Étienne’s soul free.

Katie shakes her head. “What good will it do to bring Étienne back, even if he becomes the new god of Lies?” She nods at me. “Raven will just use her to kill him.”

“Because that’s the thing about lies,” Scarlet says. She studies me, then says, “Lies can deceive, but the best ones hold a kernel of truth. And that truth can be the foundation of hope. I have seen it countless times—in a lover’s devotion, a mother’s ache for her children, a child’s love for a parent. You let yourself believe in something that isn’t true, that hasn’t happened yet, in the hopes that if you believe hard enough, if you try enough, if you cover yourself with the veil completely enough, it will become truth.” Her eyes turn distant, and for the first time, I see a glimmer of who she must once have been as a mortal. “Lies are stories. Stories are hope. And hope is the only thing that can restore balance.”

She doesn’t say it aloud, but she doesn’t need to. Love is interlaced with lies, too, the sheer determination of denial. If I can free Étienne, we have a chance. If I can’t, we are lost.

“Do you think he’s right?” I say softly. “For doing this?”

“Raven?” Katie says, her face darkening. Her lips twist at the notion, but she doesn’t answer right away. Neither does anyone else.

For a moment, we are quiet.

Willow is the only one who speaks up in the momentary silence. “Raven was not always so aloof,” she replies, and the look on her face is honest, full of sorrow and uncertainty. “I remember him as a young Regent, when he was not far removed from his mortal self. For a long time, he resisted his own goddess’s requests, would fight with her on completing tasks, would argue about whose souls deserved to go. Who deserved to stay.”

Again, I picture his mortal self, the young man named Arthur, those bright eyes and firm voice, shouting for others to help, to hang on just a little longer.

“And yet, over and over, his goddess would choose him,” Willow continues. She looks at Laine, then me. “Harbingers of Death must hurt for mortals. They must understand the weight of a life. Only then can they be worthy enough to take it.”

I look into the fire and say nothing for a while. A thousand thoughts swirl in my mind. Maybe Raven had not forgotten his mortality after all, but had held on to it for so long that the grief of it drove him mad. Maybe his fundamental flaw is his capacity to hold on to the memory of his humanity, a ceaseless desire to correct all the wrongs of the world. Even though his mortal heart is gone, the echo of it has remained, growing until it has swallowed all of him.

So it goes with all the gods, doesn’t it? The god of War wants someone dead because it will trigger a war that frees a nation. The god of Justice wants someone to give their life in order to save another’s. The goddess of Rain wants a winter storm that will kill dozens. The goddess of Earth wants a forest planted somewhere that will mean the loss of farmland for a struggling village. And somehow, together, all these individual desires bring balance to the world.

Aren’t they all valid? Aren’t they all monsters? Don’t they all think they are right?

And isn’t that the most mortal trait of all?

Over the fire, Laine’s eyes find mine.

A single human is a flawed creature. Humanity needs the company of others, challenging them, supporting them, questioning them, caring about them. I stare back at Laine and study the way the firelight illuminates her face.

No human can survive on their own.