The Midnight Star (The Young Elites #3)(61)

Then a boy with golden eyes and dark braids stands before me. Between us. His pupils are narrowed into black slits, and his jaw is clenched with resolve. He walks toward me without fear.

“Adelina, stop!” he says.

“Get—out—of my way.” I lash out at him with my illusions—but he narrows his eyes, raises his arm, and flings my illusions out of his way. They dissipate in a cloud of smoke around him. He continues toward me.

“Adelina, stop.”

It is Magiano. Magiano. Stop. The name is a small light, but it is there, and I cling to it in the maelstrom around me. I falter as he reaches me and pulls me into a rough embrace.

“He didn’t kill her,” Magiano is whispering. “Stop. Stop.” His hand cradles the back of my head.

My strength leaves me in a rush. The world around us lightens, the silhouettes of demons vanish. Teren crouches before me on one knee, leaning heavily against his sword, breathing hard. His pale eyes are fixed on mine. I look away from him and concentrate on Magiano’s arms holding me tight. Teren didn’t kill her.

But she is gone. It is too late.

I start to cry. My tears freeze on my face. In my exhaustion, I step away from Magiano and stagger back to where Violetta’s body lies on the cold ground. The others watch in silence as I fall to my knees. I gather my sister into my arms, brushing her stiff hair from her face, repeating her name over and over until it becomes a constant loop in my mind. A note of anguish escapes me in between sobs. I see a vision of the night I’d first run away from our home, when we touched our foreheads together. I do this now, resting my forehead on hers, and I rock her back and forth, begging her once again, in vain, not to leave me.





It is the holiest of places, where the stars shine against rock and the twilight never ends. Be wary, for pilgrims may be so drawn to its power that they may lose themselves entirely.

—Charted Paths of the Karra Mountains, various authors





Adelina Amouteru




Had Violetta died in Kenettra, we would have buried her ashes in the maze of catacombs extending underneath the city. But out here, on the cold paths of the Karra Mountains, without enough wood to create a funeral pyre and the ground too frozen to dig, we can only cover her beneath a mound of stones, turned in the direction of our homeland. Before we do so, I lay her cloak over her body and bend to touch her hair—how luscious and dark her locks once were, how much I’d envied them when we were young—now it looks faded, as if its light had gone from this world along with my sister.

We should have moved faster. I should have argued less with Raffaele when negotiating in Tamoura. I should have been kinder. The whispers haunt me with these words, and this time, I don’t stop them.

The others stand beside me, hands folded into sleeves. Even Teren stands here, his face vacant. No doubt he does not grieve my sister, but to my surprise, he does not say it aloud. He seems lost in his own world, making silent prayers to the gods. Raffaele’s head is bowed in grief, and his eyes are moist with tears.

“What do we do now, Messenger?” Maeve murmurs, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. It is the question on all of our minds. “We’ve lost her. Is all this futile?”

Raffaele doesn’t answer right away. Perhaps, for once, he doesn’t know the answer. Instead, he just continues to stare at the mound of stones, wisps of his hair blowing across his face. The question is numb in my own mind. I let the whispers swirl in circles around me, their presence so familiar now.

It is your fault. It is always your fault.

“We continue on,” Raffaele finally replies. And none of us says anything different. It is simply too late to turn back now, even if it may not even be possible to step inside our destination, when we have come so far.

I should have listened to Violetta, all those months ago. When she had tried to take away my powers, I should have let her. Perhaps she would still be alive, if I’d done so. Perhaps we could have acted sooner, somehow. Perhaps we would have had more time together. The guilt sits like a weight in my chest.

I should have listened, but it doesn’t matter anymore. None of this seems to matter anymore.

As the soldiers begin to pile more stones at her feet, I take out a knife sheathed at my belt, reach out, and cut a length of Violetta’s locks. The warmth of my hand melts the ice on the strands. I entwine it with a length of my own silver hair, taking in for a moment the contrast, thinking back on the lazy afternoons when she used to weave my braids. I love you, Adelina, she used to tell me. The dried tears on my face crack when I move.

We stay for as long as we can, until finally Maeve commands us forward. I look back and try to hold Violetta’s grave marker in my sights, until she disappears around a bend.

One morning blurs into another. The twilight becomes darker each day, and the snow turns steady. No one crosses our path. It is as if we were traveling at the edge of the world. Our travel settles into long silences, where none of us feel in the mood to speak. Even Magiano rides quietly by my side, his expression dark. The energy of this terrain pulls us forward, calling to us. I see illusions at night and during the twilight days, see them chased away only by the light of our fires. Sometimes, the ghost of Violetta walks alongside my horse. Her dark hair doesn’t move in the wind, and her boots leave no prints in the snow. She never looks my way. Our path turns narrow, branching a dozen different ways every few hours, each leading deep into yet another set of mountains. Without Raffaele’s guidance, I have no doubt that we would lose ourselves out here in the cold.