The gloom of night hung heavy in the city square as I rushed across the cobbled way toward Temple Row and the massive marble rotunda that stood at the mouth of the street—the Temple of Selene.

I passed the spot where I’d stood with Aidon only weeks before, where he’d brought me, carrying me through the Underworld on the way, after he’d saved my life on Nemoralia. As the place stirred the memory, there was none of the fear I’d first felt when Varian had explained Aidon’s Shadow Walk. No fear at the thought of his father’s realm. But unlike that night—when chaos and fear poured from the temple, spilling out into the square—this night, it was silent, empty. The only sound that disturbed the stillness was the distant clatter of carriage wheels rolling down the hill of Dawn’s Court.

Before the conveyance could reach the square, I left the open space, rushing toward the marble steps that climbed to the temple.

By the time I reached the top, my chest heaved. I still hadn’t fully recovered from healing Aidon and my hands shook as I paused to pull the hood of Parthenia’s forest green cloak more securely over my hair. I took a steeling breath and pushed one of the temple’s double doors open just a crack, only far enough to slip my slight frame through. The door swung closed behind me.

The temple was silent, and still, and dark as the grave. The night here was even deeper than outside, where at least the stars offered their glow. But here . . . the new moon was the barest shadow of Selene’s hidden face, and there was no light to filter through the oculus cut high in the domed ceiling. No firelight, no glow to reflect against the marble. Just utter night.

And yet . . . a shiver ran down my spine. There was something strange to this darkness. It was more than a simple absence of light. This darkness was that of creeping, venomous things—of dark deeds and darker malice. The shadows seemed to prod closer before falling away, as if they recoiled from the light that flowed beneath my skin.

It wasn’t hard to imagine which aspect of Selene these shadows belonged to.

The Crone.

I moved ahead, allowing memory to guide me until I reached the mouth of the rounded hall where Leda’s dying body had lurched from the shadows beyond. If the guard from Nemoralia was to be believed, this hall ended at a sealed door that once led to the underground levels of the temple.

I hesitated. Cold, creeping fear spread its fingers through my gut. My light roiled in my veins, instinct ordering me to leave this place.

Fabric hissed against the marble floor.

Every cell in my body went utterly still.

I fought the grip of fear that kept my knees locked, my feet trapped in stillness, and moved. My entire body trembled but my feet were silent as they carried me into a small alcove. I pressed myself against the wall.

The temple doors had shut so silently, their hinges oiled with care. Someone could have entered unheard behind me. But the square had been empty . . . empty except for that approaching carriage.

Over the whoosh of my blood pounding in my ears, I could just make out the patter of soft-soled shoes nearing. Black shapes passed in the darkness and moved on towards the door at the end of the corridor. The door that both Sibyl and the guard had claimed was sealed.

A movement in the darkness, a shiver through the Ether, then a small metallic click. A sliver of light cut through the shadows and the figure pushed the door inward. Light grew, rolling from the stairwell beyond. A flash of pale skin, the swirl of a black robe, and the figure passed through the door, giving it a gentle push to swing shut behind them.

As quietly as I could, I rushed from my hiding place and slid across the marble. With barely an inch to spare, I shoved my foot over the threshold before the spelled door could click closed. I stilled, hardly daring to breathe as I listened to the sounds that echoed up from what I now saw was a circular stone staircase. Gentle murmurs from far below and the crackle and hiss of torches along the rough walls were the only sounds. But the torches were blackened with fresh ash and burnt nearly halfway down, though the ends that hung from beneath the sconces were still fragrant. This wood was from newly felled trees. This was not a stairwell that had been closed up and unused for a century or more. Though Sibyl had spoken the truth as she believed it . . . whatever was going on here, the High Priestess did not know.

Wishing I had Parthenia’s ability to change my form, I pulled the folds of her cloak more tightly around me and began my descent.

At the bottom of the stairwell, I paused and listened, but the voices I’d heard before had moved on. I took a breath and pushed on, keeping my back close to the wall as I stepped into the dim corridor.

The hall was old, hewn from rough stone with thick columns and rounded arches that supported the temple above. It was lined with small alcoves for prayer, each bearing an altar set with statuary depicting the goddess. The first I passed was that of a young female crowned in the crescent of the waxing moon. My eyes moved over her face and a hand reflexively lifted to cover my mouth. If the sculptor had used Elysa for a model, a better likeness of her could not possibly have been carved. The bust had the same cold eyes, the same stick-straight hair. She even wore Elysa’s thin, sword-slash grin. Below her, the Old Dorian rune for maiden was carved. But what was carved beneath it . . . I searched my mind for a suitable translation for the archaic text. What had the book said about the Maiden? Full of reckless folly. The translation from Old Dorian into common speech was close enough to what was here.

I moved on toward the next alcove, which held a figure I’d seen throughout my whole life, whose large statue dominated the temple above. She too held a striking resemblance to Elysa, though Selene appeared older, her features tempered with age-won patience and calm. But this bust held one great difference to the lofty effigy above. Instead of a triple moon diadem, Selene was crowned in the orb of the full moon. Only the full moon.

I’d always thought Selene’s triple-mooned crown was meant to denote her oneness. But this… this was the Selene of old, who only held control of herself beneath the full moon’s sway. Beneath her statue, only one rune was carved: Mordur. Old Dorian for mother.

That left only one other aspect of the goddess.

A thin sheen of sweat broke out across my palms as my feet carried me towards the last of the three. I didn’t need to look at the etchings below her bust to know what they would say. Crone. Madness. Hunger.

Just as I’d seen in the book, thin clumps of hair hung around a haunted, skeletal face. Her eyes stared out from deep sockets, demented and ravenous.

I stumbled away a step, unwilling to turn my back on the mad goddess before me, stone or not, when low voices drifted through the empty hall.

“You assured me the venom could take care of any God-Blooded.” Strong, resonant. A voice I knew. One that belonged to arenas and battlefields. My blood turned to ice.

My eyes swept the dim hall as I desperately searched for a place to hide. The Emperor's steps grew closer.

With no other option, I scurried back the way I’d come, just ducking into the cover of the stairwell as two figures rounded a branching hall by the alcove where the Crone kept her frightening vigil.

“As I told you, Majesty, Arachne’s venom could kill Hades himself. Perhaps your son made a mistake. Used a fang from one of the lesser beasts.”

I knew this voice as well as my own. Had my magic not been so pitifully depleted, I would have sensed her presence long before. Elysa.

Shock held me tight.

“You forget your place, Korai.”

“And you forget who keeps your lifeblood flowing. If not for me, what do you think would happen to Soren’s power? It views you as a foreign host. If I let the leash slip, that power flows back into the Ether. And you, Majesty . . . you will be the one to take a trip to the Underworld instead of the Myridian.”

My hand clamped over my mouth, muffling a gasp that was half a sob. No. No. No.

Their footsteps halted as a low growl reverberated through the hall. But Elysa was unbowed. Her cold, inflectionless voice carried on, “As I tried to convince the High Priestess, no matter what Aidoneus said, Aurora must have intervened. I see no other way the Myridian’s heart could still be beating. Unless he has inherited some power from his mother that we haven’t accounted for.”

The Emperor scoffed. “The Siren? No. She is nothing more than an enchantress and thief. Even among her own people, she is an outcast. The only thing Aidoneus learned from her was piracy and deceit.”

“If he learned deceit from the cradle . . . You think he might have a way to trick our power? It had to be Aurora . . .” A pause, then. “Why haven’t you brought her to heel? You have an entire cask of that wine.”

“Too much of that particular poison can leave lasting damage. Ileana never conceived again after I began dosing her regularly. We need Aurora healthy. We have to find another way to keep her under control, at least until Varian gets her with child. Then . . . motherhood will likely make her more malleable, especially with a babe to use as leverage.”

“Oh? She is not the only one who could provide a strong heir . . .”

“Don’t overstep, Korai.”

“But I could—”

“Fragile though Aurora’s sensibilities may be,” he went on, “the power in her blood is something quite extraordinary. No Korai has ever wielded both the light and the flame with her skill. And then there is her father. She has inherited his power to shield. With that, we will be unparalleled. Even at sea.”

My father . . . My father was nameless. Unknown. Or so I’d been allowed to believe. The fact that he might be known, that this might be another lie by omission . . .

No, I couldn’t dwell on that. Not now.

“My power is more than Aurora’s ever could be,” Elysa said.

The lie filled my mouth with rot. And even though Elysa’s crimes had been made clear, I pitied her.

The Emperor chuckled, but when he spoke his voice was a seductive purr. “You, my dear, already know what part you must play. And you will have your reward in the end. But for now, that treat you requested is ready and waiting for you on your mother’s altar, sweeter than any wine . . .”

Their voices drew away until even my God-Blooded hearing could not make out their words. When all was silent, I abandoned my hiding place and reentered the hall. Distracted as I’d been by the figures of the Maiden, Mother, and Crone, I’d failed to notice the carved archway that stood opposite Selene’s placid gaze.

Dark and hair-raisingly forboding, only a dim, wavering blue light hung past the rough-hewn threshold, but its glow was muted, distant. Between me and whatever lay beyond, shadows reigned.

With each step closer to the archway, the light within me flickered in alarm. The shadows pressed against my skin like a fine sheen of oil. This was worse, so much worse, than the shadows that filled the temple proper. There was nothing natural about the gloom here. It was too absolute, this darkness, too cold, too wrong.

I hesitated, glancing around. The Emperor and Elysa had come from the other end of the hall and had not moved past the stairwell. They had to have gone through here.

A deep breath, then I stepped into the shadows. Darkness surrounded me, swirling in a thick, suffocating veil of malice. The gloom pressed in, ghoulish fingers lifting the folds of my cloak and locks of my hair.

My power flickered and flared . . . and died. And the darkness pressed closer, eager to snuff out any trace of light and warmth. Shadows pulled at me. Every step was an effort, like trudging through thick, clinging mud. But I pushed on, eyes fixed on the end of the corridor, where the sickly pale light still glowed. Sweat beaded my forehead and ran down my neck, but as I walked, the light grew, until finally, I saw the metallic gleam of the torch’s sconce. Its glow was feeble, as if all forms of light struggled to survive here. But as weak as the flame was, it cast just enough light to illuminate the two wooden doors that stood to its side.

The wood was as black as the shadows around me, but it glowed with a strange iridescence. As if the oily quality of the shadows had left a residue on its surface. Carved in the center, where the two doors met, was a large crescent moon, its face waning. Beneath the moon stood a now familiar figure, a crown of sharp blades atop her tangled, wispy hair.

The Crone looked upon those who would enter, eyes wide with madness, a brutal cold-blooded sneer twisting withered lips. And beneath the goddess . . . I swallowed thickly. Beneath her, an intricate mass of writhing bodies had been carved with the precision of a greatly talented—though likely mad—hand. Jaws gaped, eyes were wide in horror and unspeakable pain. Limbs were torn from bodies too emaciated to be those of the living. That was the kingdom over which the Crone’s madness reigned.

I might have stood there, frozen by the horrid work before me until the shadows finally drained every ounce of light from my veins, had voices, intoning in the steady rhythm of Old Dorian, not drifted through the tiny cracks in the ancient door.

I pushed through my disgust, swallowed down my terror, and forced myself to press against the wood as I peeked through the sliver of open space between the closed doors.