Contrary to the myths, Purgatory was far from being a lake of fire. That honor was reserved for the Realm of Damnation, or so Valen claimed. Mavyn craned her neck up, watching the bright lanterns floating in the air without harnesses, guiding their way across a vast, open hall flanked with arches, carved marble columns, and lush gardens. Not a scream from the ghoulish souls flitting beyond the edge of the palace made it through the gaps between columns. A thick essence of smokewood incense and lohori buds rippled in the expansive space in even swathes, never dispersing nor diffusing.

It took her this long to realize the stark thuds of pointed soles against the polished, obsidian floor belonged to her. The tight corset of the elaborate dress Valen "gifted" her dug against her spine and stomach. A little tighter, and she would have stopped breathing. Her sweeping skirt, black and star-kissed against the deep void of the hall, bounced against her knee with every step. Cold air poked the back of her neck, forever a reminder of her hair pinned up in an elaborate arrangement of braids, pearls, and flowers.

Beside her, Valen matched her pace with a resolute expression on his face. None of his features betrayed whether he looked forward to his sister's wedding or it pained him to walk through the length of the palace's entrance with a Living woman, much less a witch among them. His red eyes swept through the mass of well-dressed souls taking the same pilgrimage as them, no doubt fishing out who might have risen against his father.

Mavyn tucked her hands by her navel, bringing up fruit of her etiquette training in preparation of marrying up. Her elbows stuck out like skinny chicken wings, but she straightened her spine as far as the corset allowed and kept her chin up. With the long corridor coming to an end at the appearance of an enormous set of dual doors, she must bring her all into this vapid game.

The action must have caught Valen's attention because he stopped walking to turn to her with his white eyebrows bunched together. "What are you doing?" he asked, a strand of pure confusion laced around his tone. He wagged a finger all over her person. "Wh...I do not understand the need."

Her lips parted slightly, disbelief coloring her words. "I'm trying to be proper for once, egghead," she hissed, lowering her voice for the benefit of the people around them. And probably Valen. He didn't want her to be discovered, did he? "This is how the Living ought to act to appear sophisticated."

"Stand properly, and ease those arms. You look like a starved fowl," Valen answered, rubbing his chin. It was only then did Mavyn realize it was without any stubble. "Also, what is an egghead?"

Mavyn lowered her arms, letting them dangle awkwardly at her sides. "What do you want me to do, then?" she demanded. "And an egghead is someone like you."

A shadow fell over her as he swiveled from her side to her line of vision. Valen still had a puzzled look on his face. "Someone like me?" he asked. "Do elaborate."

She clicked her tongue, waving a hand towards his hair. "Eggs are white. Figure it out," she said, crossing her arms and tilting her head at him. "Now, tell me how to 'stand properly'." Under her breath, she added, "We should've done this before we left the castle."

If Valen caught that, he didn't bother pursuing it. Instead, he reached out and clasped her elbows. His fingers brushed her skin, sending brief, cold tingles on the surface. Her breath caught in her throat, but she forced herself to exhale. She felt his hands travel down in a soothing motion, easing the tension in her muscles.

"First, relax," he said. "It will not serve you to be bunched up like a hare about to flee."

Mavyn swallowed against her arid throat. What would it take for a woman to get a drink in this place? "Second," Valen continued, hands moving to her shoulders. "Do not hold your head so high. To everyone else beyond that door, you are from a foreign dominion. A guest—if we are being technical. You do not want to challenge someone's authority by turning up your nose."

She scoffed. "Am I supposed to act submissive?"

He shook his head, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. Had it managed to escape the taut arrangement he conjured for her? Her eyes rose, meeting his gaze. It was both gentle and grim, hiding pitless cruelty under a mask of civility. The only reason she was alive this long was because he needed her. After that? She had to think of an escape route. And quickly.

"Be like the sakonskora," Valen said. "Bend with the wind, hide in the foliage, but when someone steps on you, strike them down."

Mavyn pursed her lips, fingers bunching up a part of her skirts. Sakonskora, or what were known as bone lilies, were known for their unremarkable gray blossoms and poisonous fumes. They crunch like brittle bones whenever their bodies encounter blunt forces, and when their stems break, they emit a cloud of toxins so deadly the longest time of surviving after being exposed was twelve seconds.

If she understood it correctly, Valen wanted her to blend in and, when the situation called for it, to lash out. It was the most useful advice he offered her since coming here, so she'd keep it in mind.

"And you cannot do that if you barge in there with an ounce of challenge with every step," Valen continued. It sank in then—his hands never left her exposed shoulders, and the fire in her cheeks never dimmed. Not a fraction. "Once we are inside, you will be seated among the esteemed personnel with your place as my wife. Do everything you can to engage my sister in a conversation."

Indirect and unassuming, if she was going with the plan they drew up earlier today. How did they even keep track of days in the Underworld? She squared her shoulders when Valen's presence eased from her personal space. That was a relief. "I know what I have to do," she replied, pushing past him and soldiering on towards the dual doors. In the few minutes they talked, the horde doubled and tripled, even. Was Roassa a damned scatterfly? She has too many friends. Mavyn whipped back to Valen who tramped after her. "Do you?"

Valen gave her a brief nod as they cleared the doors and came upon a spacious banquet hall. Mavyn's jaw hung open, dark spots pricking the edge of her vision. If she thought the corridor outside was bright, then the amber ambience of this room was the sun's countenance. A rectangular table rounded the perimeter of the hall, leaving not a meter of space from the walls to the line of cushioned chairs by the table. Golden candelabras peppered the table in regular intervals of three seats. Splotches of green relishes, blobs of red berries, and squares of porous pastry decorated the gleaming bronze plates, complementing the strands of polished cutlery glinting against the flickering flames of the candles.

Most of the seats were occupied, and their faces went over Mavyn's memory as Valen ushered her to the left, approaching the "head" of the table. She breathed, willing the stress in her muscles to seep out of her skin. If she didn't do this job well, she might find herself as the next course diced up on those plates.

Valen placed a hand on the small of her back as he did when he introduced her to his family. They must be coming up. Mavyn followed his advice, raising her eyes from the floor but keeping them trained at the glass windows and the lightless void beyond them. "Sisters, Brother, and Mother," Valen said, his voice cordial and bouncier than she was comfortable with. "I present you Mavyn. May she find solace in your company."

She was about to bow at the series of heads turned towards her, but she noticed a stranger bobbing in her periphery. It was a small girl with wild, flowing hair like Prisca, slit-less red eyes, and a ring of light forming a halo over her head. Mavyn turned to Valen in question, but he subtly shook his head. Don't ask, he seemed to say into her thoughts. I'll explain later.

The sound of a chair grating against the obsidian floor rang across the hall. "Oh, come, come," Roassa's chipper voice tore Mavyn's attention from the youngest girl down the line. "I've been waiting for you. I've got a lot to ask you about Irkalla. I heard the coasts are splendid there."

Mavyn bit the inside of her cheek, sparing Valen a quick glance. Why did he have to make up a story about her origin she knew nothing about? "Ah, yes," she said as she sank into the chair Roassa prepared for her with a swish of a hand. "Truly splendid."

From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a black haze whizzing past the arriving guests unnoticed. Damned egghead. He left her alone in a den of wolves. At least he stuck to his promise of finding Abnegem. Maybe she should stick to hers too.

"Listen, Roassa," Mavyn started. "I was curious about—"

The lights dimmed as one, prompting Roassa to sit forward. "Oh, this is my favorite part," she said in a voice that could have been a squeal dragged out. "The dancers!"

As if on cue, the space enclosed by the long table poofed with pink smoke. Out of the saccharine plumes, several spirits dressed in gaudy and rosy garb leaped out and started swaying. Their near-transparent arms swished and cut through the air in measured stances, the gossamer cloth tied on their belts and their middle fingers flying in fluid gestures with every move. Music bloomed in cresting scales in a haunting melody Mavyn has never heard before whose beat the ghoulish dancers matched.

Roassa bounced on her seat, clapping like a child poisoned with sugar. The man with unimpressive features complete with the red eyes, darker-than-night skin, and silver hair must be her partner. He stared out at the festivities, his frown never alleviating.

Mavyn bit her lip, throwing her attention towards the attraction at hand. The dancers were good, no doubt from the same profession when they were alive. She opened and squeezed her hands over her skirts and under the table. Slowly, she slid towards Roassa and away from the steely man clad in a blue-and-gold robe paired with a tall, tapered hat. Was he a judge? But of what?

"Hey, Ro," Mavyn said. It was a risk she had to take if she was to get the Kathari's attention.

She turned to Mavyn with raised eyebrows. "Oh, 'Ro'?" A small giggle escaped her lips. The dancers were forgotten despite their flashy and expressive entertainment. "Nobody called me that before."

Well, it was Mavyn's pleasure. "I just..." She pressed a hooked finger to her lips, leaning closer to the Kathari. "I heard from Valen that the Monarch wasn't feeling well lately. He greeted me so kindly upon my arrival, and I'd like to return the favor."

Roassa glanced to her left then shrugged. "If Mother was ill, we would have known," she replied. "The life of the Underworld relies on her health."

Mother? Were they talking about the same Monarch? Come to think of it...Valen referred to the collective as Sisters, Brother, and Mother before he left. Mavyn studied the line of Kathari beyond Roassa. There was Prisca with her ethereal stance as always, Noclys with his eternal grouchy face, and the small child. Wait. Was that—

"Mother doesn't like her personal matters prodded upon," Roassa continued with a sniff. "If I were you, I'd ignore what Valen said. He has been trying to get more people in his paranoid cart for as long as I can remember. If he told you the same script, walk away and never talk to him about it again. The Monarch is fine. Or else, Purgatory will have felt it."

Which was a rather flippant way of dealing with Mavyn's advances. She saw how all of them rushed to the Monarch when he started coughing, and yet here was Roassa saying he wasn't ill. And turning the blame over to Valen being mad? It made all the warning bells in Mavyn's mind flare up.

So, she sat in silence for the rest of the banquet, serving smiles and brief greetings to people who approached her. Word spread fast about Valen's secret and sudden wife, and if not for Roassa's child-like attention span, Mavyn might have been the sodden end of the Kathari's wrath for eclipsing her event. It was Roassa's wedding, not Valen's. Otherwise, Mavyn wouldn't have agreed to come here. She has had enough of engagement parties and exchanges of vows.

When the meal rolled around, the doors burst open and spirits bearing more gleaming plates strode into the scene. When one of them flitted beside Mavyn, a soft whizz of cold air and a weak hint of lavender hit her senses. Those sensations were gone as quickly as she felt them.

She looked down at her plate to find a lone purple sphere in front of her. Beside her, Roassa picked up a spoon and whacked its bulbous head at the sphere's surface. The same crack emanating from an egg rang from the impact. Then, she watched as everyone did the same and started slurping the green goop flowing from the cracks along with the hard bits of the shell.

Valen didn't get the egghead reference. Not when their eggs were the shade of foxgloves.