"There's a Deathsinger in Edresh."

"A Deathsinger... Your kind is known to us."

Damning words followed me all the way back to my room. Every so often, I checked over my shoulder, but I was not consoled by the empty corridor stretching behind me. Not when its corners were cloaked in shadows that could conceal assassins with the power to harm the most powerful elf in our realm. What was I compared to the king?

"A Deathsinger."

For ten years, I worked to convince myself it didn't matter where I came from because that life was over. The desperate need to understand how I lost my memories died the day the soldiers pulled me out of the cabin in the woods and took me into the city, and a determination to survive no matter the price replaced it.

When my abilities manifested, I questioned whether I could keep living this way, especially when I stood by and watched Wardens drag girls in for interrogation. I sensed their impending death each time, and I did nothing, even knowing—the same way I knew they would die—that they were innocent. But it would be my head adorning the gate if anyone found out what I could do.

I slipped into my bedroom, closed the door, and leaned against it. Head tilted back, I blinked away hot tears. I might cry for others, like the prince, but I would not waste tears on myself. They were a weakness I could not afford.

The weak light of a waxing moon filled my chamber, offering me enough light to maneuver around furniture in the cramped space. Being Astreia's companion afforded me with several perks, like nice clothes and fancy meals, but they drew the line at lavish living quarters.

And by they, I meant the queen. She was of the opinion that they should only spend money on what someone else could see, and they assigned me to a room in the servant's quarters. Not that I minded. As much as I loved Astreia and Tievel, I always felt out of place in their glittering world, not because I didn't like the shine, but because no amount of money spent on polish could make the other elves see me as anything but a low elf.

Going to my bed, I crawled into the center without undressing and pulled my knees to my chest. Through the window, I could see the roofs of the tallest buildings in the city. The oldest were flat, having been built when winters were temperate and snow happened once every few years. All that had changed in the last few years, with each winter growing colder than the last. Steep sloped roofs topped the newer buildings to better bear the weight of heavy snow.

I overheard a group of pixies talking about the changes once while Astreia and I were on Market Street shopping. They huddled together—their filthy rags doing little to keep them warm in the harsh cold. It had been hard to hear over the buzzing of their iridescent wings, fragile and frosted. If they stopped moving, they might never start again—but I heard enough to know that their spoken words echoed my secret thoughts.

Cursed. The war might be over, but it was no longer clear if we had been victorious. And now a darker thought came to me. Perhaps I was part of the blight upon the city.

"Are you going to sit in the dark all evening?"

I sucked in a gasp, preparing to let loose a scream this time, when a flame flared brightly across the room. A small figure blew out the match and twisted the knob on the lantern, and the room flooded with golden light.

"Joreen," I snarled, slapping my hands on the thin mattress and glaring at her. "Why are you in my room?"

The rickety desk chair creaked as the vixen leaned forward, her ever present mischievous grin plastered on her pointed face. "Because you left it unlocked."

"No." I swung my legs over the side of the bed and smoothed my skirts. "That's how you got into the room. Why are you in the room?"

Joreen clicked her tongue. "Are you sure you're not part Vixen, Morana? Always so clever."

Gods, if that were only the truth. Not much higher than Low Elves, shifters like Vixens were usually part of powerful communities and possessed a reasonable degree of power. Acceptable power. One day, when Joreen became of age, she would leave the palace and settle down with her own kind. Perhaps that's what bothered me so much about her behavior. Always pushing boundaries because she could afford to.

"I'm tired. Please tell me what you want and go."

She huffed and folded her arms over her chest. It reminded me how much of the child remained inside that now womanly body.

"We all heard the bells, and then we were told to get to our rooms. Beatrice said the palace is on lockdown."

"And yet you're in my room."

"Because I figured you might know what was going on since you're so close to the princess and prince."

"I'm sure we will all find out when the time is–"

"Come off it." Her freckles stood out on her cheeks as she paled. "Are we under attack? Will there be another war?"

I wanted to say no, but I couldn't lie. The Reaper had killed the king. That was certainly an act worthy of sparking a war, but what was there to attack? No one had traveled beyond the Vesper in ten years. Araphel was destroyed.

Wasn't it?

"I don't know." I held up my hand. "That's the honest truth. The king was injured, and his family is with him."

"Serves him right," she hissed, balling her small fists together and striking her thighs. "A fair price to pay for cursing our lands with his unholy war."

"Hush." I ran to the door and stuffed a blanket along the bottom to muffle the sound. "If the wrong person hears you say that you'll be killed."

"So?" She tugged on her bright red braid. "You're always such a good girl, Morana. You toe the line. You don't speak out. But you see it. Do you know what is happening out there?"

Joreen walked to the window. Fingers curling over the ledge, she stood on her tiptoes and peered into the night. I hung back, struck by the memory of my first day at the palace, when I'd pressed my nose against the glass to watch the celebrations taking place. Even then, I'd known that joy couldn't last forever. I just didn't think it would go so quickly.

"I was six when my parents were killed during a raid. Our den was to the south, near the Marra Sea."

I frowned. Most raids in Edresh happened near or in the Vesper. Why would the Araphelians go so far south? Joreen saw my confusion and responded.

"We had a Bone Witch in our village. Two nights before the raid, she rolled her bones and told the Town Council that the war was the king's fault. She said he was waging war against fate. For eternal life, we would all be eternally damned."

Joreen fiddled with the lace edge of the curtain. "There was more, but I don't remember it all. What I do remember is seeing my mother pulled out of our den by her hair. By a man wearing a silver and black cloak."

"Those are the colors of the Araphelian uniforms."

"But the ring on his finger—the one I saw when he ripped my mother from me—had the flame and Sun of Edresh."

Denial ripped through me. "You were six, Joreen. You can't be sure what you saw."

Her tufted ears stood straight up, quivering at the end so hard the tiny tufts of hair shivered in the still room. Through bared teeth, she growled, "There are some things you never forget, Morana. No matter how young you are... At least not for those of us who weren't given a comfy station in life. Perhaps the cure for nightmares is silk sheets and the attention of a prince? Is that it? Do you sleep peacefully at night?"

I wilted under her rage as the ruined flesh along my arm and shoulder prickled. No matter how safe or comfortable I felt in my day-to-day life, no matter how many years distanced me from that night, and no matter that I couldn't remember what happened, I could not escape the dreams of burning or the pain.

Whatever Joreen saw in my expression eased her anger, and she flopped back into her chair with a sigh. It was so dramatic and so typical of the vixen. It almost brought a smile to my face. Almost.

"Don't you see, Morana? These rumors? The Reaper? It's a distraction from what's actually happening."

The Reaper certainly wasn't a rumor. "And what is that?"

Joreen glanced at the towel on the floor and lowered her voice so that I had to lean in to catch what she said. "I was on Market Street three weeks ago, and there was a commotion near the Birthing House. Four full term babes were delivered stillborn. Hat Lady Sal told me that made fifteen for the month."

I covered my mouth, eyes brimming with tears. Was that what I'd felt today? That tangible dread that made the hairs on my neck raise?

"You really didn't know?"

"No. I had heard that–" I licked my lips to work moisture back into my mouth. "That there were rumors of spirits wandering about in town. Hyram, the tailor, said he saw the ghost of his wife Jaqulin wandering near the Vesper when he went to collect an order from the clothier."

Joreen nodded. "Old souls cannot leave. New souls cannot enter. That sounds like a curse to me."

And a Reaper in Edresh.

"You should go."

She gasped, then shook her head. "I should have known better than to try to convince you to help."

"I don't know what you think I can do." A strange sound filled the room, like a single drawn out note in a song. I pressed my hand to my ear. "Do you hear that?"

"Whatever, Morana. I'm going. You don't have to create a scene to get me to leave."

"You really don't hear that?" I asked, shivering as the note changed. The song went up an octave. It drilled an icy burn into my bones.

Joreen was already opening the door, and she didn't look back as she said, "I heard nothing but a coward speaking."

Stumbling, I made it to my vanity before my legs went out from under me. Elbows braced against the dresser's surface, I stared at my reflection in horror. Black swallowed my amethyst irises, spreading into the whites of my eyes, and then across my skin in swirling lines that devoured the lantern's light.

How long the song went on, I wasn't sure. Each one of its forlorn notes burrowed into my skin, producing ecstasy even as it heralded doom. Then all sound ceased. Clutching the edge of the vanity, I raised my gaze back to the mirror. Wide violet eyes filled a pale, sweaty face free of any lines or swirls.

The lantern's flame flickered. Once. Twice. Then it extinguished, pitching the room into darkness, and I knew, the way I always knew, that the king was dead.