The hall bled from the set of looming doors with a flourish, accompanying Valen's lonely journey on his way to the lone seat on the far end of the room. The heavy, drawn curtains stayed still from their rods, not bothering to show him the ongoing trials and the endless line of deceased souls awaiting their destiny. His gaze passed by the towering columns carved from marble, the splendor of the red and gold embellishments lost in his periphery and memory.

His steps echoed in the near empty hall. They were almost dragging, the dread curled at the base of his gut reminding him of what he came here for. He clenched his jaw when he approached the lone figure settled on a throne of blades and velvet. Made from the shadows of the legendary weapons of the greatest fallen warriors, the Judgment Seat dominated every presence that dared look at it.

Valen trained his eyes on the ground, studying the hem of the dress the color of moonlight pooling at the base. "Your Majesty," he said. "You called?"

"Look at me when I wish to speak to you, Valen." Prisca's stern but soft reprimand reached his ears. "I do not possess my predecessor's proclivity for fanfare."

He eased the tension in his jaw and obeyed. His sister's silvery hair caught on a shade of blue since taking up the throne. Against his courtesy, his eyes landed on his sister's arm resting on her lap with a regal stance. The wound she sustained the day of the Solstice Conclave decorated her arm in dark webs, eager to eat at her essence and reduce her to smoke and dust.

The Monarch's fate was a tragic blow to the Underworld's order. With one less sibling to preside over Damnation, and another incapacitated to the point of being confined to bed, Valen had been all over the place, running three domains, aiding Prisca attain the Monarch's control over the Judgment Seat, and finding the cure to the Life Matter infestation hurting his family.

"You know why I summoned you," Prisca continued when Valen failed to produce a viable answer. "I implore you to consider taking the Garden as your permanent domain. I will comb through our list of allies, find you a suitable partner, and ensure the health of the Underworld."

A sigh ripped out of her chest, no doubt grasping the reason behind the frown marring Valen's features. "I know finding a lover is the last thing on your mind and that I resemble my predecessor to a fault—"

"You are correct in that regard, sister," Valen answered, cutting her off before she uttered more nonsense he couldn't bear hearing again. "A union is the last thing we need to deal with the matter at hand."

He locked gazes with Prisca despite the difference in the well of power pulsating underneath each of their bodies. "The Living Witch is still out there," he said. "Do not ask me how I know—I just do—so we need to find Mordelle first and stop Mavyn from upsetting the Underworld's balance more than she already has."

Prisca's eyes hardened to uncut rubies at the mention of the mortal who graced their nightmares a few seasons ago. "You claimed you flooded her soul with Death Matter, pushing all the Living Magic out of her," she said. "That scoundrel must be at the back of the line, awaiting her trial. Rest assured that I will not let her spend eternity anywhere other than Damnation."

Valen opened his mouth, but Prisca wasn't done. "You have a talent for sniffing trouble that isn't there, and I appreciate you for it, but I need you to put this to rest." She waved a hand in the air, making the temperature drop hitches lower. A flash of anger laced around her tone, but to Valen it was closer to despair. "The Underworld is crumbling, and I am barely able to restore it to its full capacity with a busted arm and a dwindling connection to Paradise. Ease my worries by taking the Garden off my back. If all must end, we can save those who lived a life of good."

Which meant she didn't care if Damnation and Purgatory blinked to nonexistence, a fate worse than the sea of fire or oblivion. As long as the souls she deemed as pure were salvaged, she wouldn't spare a thought for those who were still paying their penance or those who must live it for justice's sake.

There was no reasoning once Prisca laid her order. The only thing Valen could do was buy time. He was good at it. So, he ducked his head at his sister. "I will consider it," he said. "Now, if I may excuse myself."

He didn't wait for Prisca to give him the permission to leave. He was going to leave, and no one could stop him. If not for Roassa's partner, Purgatory would have fallen long ago, and if not for Prisca's spouse, Valen couldn't save Paradise from extinction. It took a mountain of swallowed pride, but Noclys' exiled consort agreed to take over Damnation on her own provided that the Underworld conceded a part of its realm to her father's territory. Prisca, on her own, couldn't control up to that extent anyway, so having the small weight off her helped improve their situation.

They didn't have the luxury of keeping to this circumstance. Something must be done, and if the last thing Mavyn told him was true, then she was out there, biding her time for that opportune moment to return and execute whatever sinister plan she concocted. She might be halfway in combing the adjacent realms for wherever Mordelle the Great Witch might have been. And the longer she spent in the Land of the Dead, the more insight she could get into their world. She was a crafty one, a proper wicked soul to grace his memory, and it wouldn't take long for them to meet again. By then, she would be stronger, and she would come for their heads.

It wouldn't take long for there to be an Immortal Witch in their midst, in control of both Life and Death Matter.

He stepped off the influence of the Judgment Seat palace, peering into the horizon shielded by veils of fog and spirits of the dead. The last thing he could allow was a consolidation of the strongest forces of the world into one soul, and if he was to stop her, he had to press on.

The memory of that fateful Solstice Conclave still burned in his mind. He couldn't forget the way her heat ebbed from her body, the quivering but strong grip she had on his shoulders before she burst in a shower of red sparks, and the sultry smile on her lips driving his guts and mind in circles. His mind would always remember her voice, weak but still full of conviction, even the warmth of her breath tickling his ear. She was like snow gracing the far mountains of Irkalla—beautiful, but cold. So, so cold.

Lastly, he wouldn't ever forget the last words she offered him and the last conversation they ever had. The Kathari never lie, but you do. What does that make you? Then, with that wicked grin enough to drive fear into his heart despite his strong denial, she leaned close and whispered her warning, her threat.

"Witches do not die, egghead," Mavyn claimed, her eyes flaring with unrivaled malice. "We burn."