Perhaps Death had left her to die.

Scarlet couldn’t keep track of the days inside her prison cell. Her sleep had become irregular as she attempted to forego consciousness as often as possible. Doing so got harder as the time stretched on and her discomfort grew. Her body was sore from lying on the hard stone, with a scant amount of loose straw as bedding.

Perhaps it had been a week. It could have been a month. At first, she’d tried to escape, but Death had created a barrier that protected the cell’s bars. She’d touched the wall of magic once. It sent a painful shock through her body, like lightning through her veins. She stayed far away from the bars after that, though she wore herself out a few times trying to blast through the barrier with magic until she collapsed. Eventually, she gave that up.

Someone was bringing her meals, but only when she slept. She hoped it was Death. It was too painful to think of Bronwen coming down to the depths of Deianira to leave her food, but not to speak with or free her. It was also hard to motivate herself to consume the offerings.

It had been some time since the last delivery of food. Then again, it had also been some time since she’d slept. She’d have to fall asleep to see if Death was purposefully starving her. She left her mind blank, open, ready to accept the embrace of nothingness. But it rejected her. It left her awake, mind and body void of everything except pain, and the slow creep of fire that built up beneath her skin.

Anger. Anger was the beast lurking in her blood, her stomach, her brain—anywhere it could fit, it squeezed its way in. It smoldered. Burned. Bided its time.

There was a moment where Scarlet became resigned to the fact that this imprisonment would be the end of her. But then the words came to her: one day, I will burn this castle to the ground.

This time, she knew she meant it. The embers inside of her grew.

It kept her going until the day footsteps resounded down the passageway of the prison. There was a flash of magic and Scarlet felt the barrier around her cell dissolving. Then came the jingling of keys. She summoned enough strength to look up.

Death unlocked the cell door and threw it open. The screech of metal on metal made Scarlet flinch. She had become accustomed to the heavy silence of the prison.

“Come on,” Death said, beckoning her.

Scarlet almost thought to remain on the cold floor of her cell in an act of defiance. Then she remembered the comforts of a real bed. Of sunlight, and fresh clear air. She pulled her aching body up and followed Death out of the dungeon. Once they reached ground level, Death disappeared around a corner, leaving Scarlet alone in the hall without another word.

So Scarlet was free, and yet not. She couldn't be, with the emissary marks emblazoned on her hand. There had to be a way for her to break the bond, and she was determined to figure out how. If she could do that, and figure out how to open a portal, she could flee back to the World without Death being able to track her.

And then she would find her mother.

For now, she took her time getting back upstairs to her room. Her legs wobbled, but eventually, Scarlet flung open the door to her room, and promptly collapsed into bed. The warmth and softness of a real mattress nearly brought her to tears. Sleep overtook her instantly.

When she woke, bright midday light shone into her room and she found herself unbearably hungry. With a modicum of autonomy returned, her appetite had made a comeback. She replaced her soiled clothes with clean ones from her wardrobe, then made a beeline downstairs to raid the pantry. Bronwen had kept it well-stocked. There was an abundance of fresh fruits and bread, and many other delights that she piled into her arms.

She usually ate at the small table in the kitchen, where the cooks and other kitchen staff of a properly staffed castle would have eaten. But after her time in the dungeon, the walls of the smaller room pressed in around her. Instead, she carried her food out to the great hall, a room that in any other castle would be meant for merriment, dancing, and dozens if not hundreds of diners. Of course in Deianira, it was large and empty, other than a great long table and now, Scarlet. She took a seat at the middle of the table and began to savor her own personal feast.

“Ah, Scarlet.”

She jumped at the sound of Bronwen’s voice, nearly inhaling a grape.

Bronwen took a seat next to her. “How are you doing?”

It was Death that threw her in the cell, yet bitterness toward Bronwen flooded out from her. He could have helped her, but he hadn’t.

“I’m fine,” she said. She stuffed a chunk of bread in her mouth.

“Death is too hard on you. I’m sorry for that, Scarlet, I really am.”

“Yet,” Scarlet said, mouth full, “you work for her.”

“I do,” Bronwen said. Scarlet couldn’t tell if he was resigned, or resolute.

She said nothing in return.

Bronwen’s words were offered softly, like a peace offering, “I have someone to introduce you to.”

Introduce meant it wasn’t her mother. “Not interested.”

“I think you will be.”

“An emissary?”

“No. A new arrival.”

Who would be here other than an emissary? Scarlet’s curiosity piqued despite her best efforts.

“I’ll bring him here,” Bronwen said.

“Fine. Whatever.” Scarlet chomped down on a juicy fruit that she didn’t know the name of. Its sweet, exotic flavor was the best thing she’d ever tasted.

Bronwen left and returned a few minutes later, once Scarlet had finished eating. He had in tow a boy who looked to be around Scarlet’s age. His hair was blond, shorn close on the sides and around the back, with the rest of his hair tied into a short tail.

As they got closer Scarlet noticed the boy had dark circles under his eyes that gave him a haunted look. He looked up and their eyes locked. His irises were green, bright like Death’s but warmer, and curious.

Scarlet cut her gaze back to Bronwen. “Who’s this?”

“This is Dante.”

Scarlet looked at the boy again. She avoided his sharp inquisitive gaze this time. Dante. A boy. Not an emissary. He held himself stiffly and didn’t seem to know what was going on any more than she did.

“Dante will be staying at Deianira from now on and joining some of your lessons. Scarlet, why don’t you show him the way to his quarters? He’ll be staying in the room across from yours.”

The last thing Scarlet wanted was to be left with this new boy. She had barely begun to recover from her imprisonment, had no idea what Death had in store for her next, and now there would be some random non-emissary joining her lessons? She dug her fingertips into her palm.

Bronwen cleared his throat. “Scarlet?”

“I can’t. I’m busy.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Really?” Bronwen scooped up her empty plate. “Well, I’ll take care of the dishes, so you can take Dante to his room.”

Scarlet crossed her arms. “Fine.”

Bronwen thanked her and left the great hall, leaving her with Dante. What could she even say to him? It had been weeks since she’d had a proper conversation with anyone, let alone a stranger.

“So.” Dante stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets. “I should come with you?”

Scarlet gave him a curt nod before taking off. She stole glances at him as they made their way through Deianira. The way he held himself betrayed his timidness, yet his eyes examined everything around them with deep curiosity. He was small; they were about the same height. His hands were calloused, and perhaps his fingertips were stained green. He had freckles.

“This place is like a maze,” Dante observed. “Do you know why it was built like this?”

Scarlet scowled. She wasn’t in the mood to play tour guide, but if she answered maybe he’d leave her alone. “Everything in the Crossworld is malleable. A reflection of the World combined with the will of the gods. It’s this way because that’s how Death wants it.”

“Death...” Dante let out a deep breath. “So this is Death’s castle?”

Scarlet gave him a vaguely affirmative grunt.

“Aren’t you afraid of her?”

The prison, the brutality of her training and the lack of information—Death’s treatment of her was maddening. But fear wasn’t the emotion boiling in Scarlet’s gut. Her fear was reserved for Riordan. She ascended a full flight of stairs before she answered. “No. I’m not afraid of her.”

“Should… should I be? I haven’t met her yet.”

“Bronwen said you aren’t an emissary.”

“I don’t even know what an emissary is, so—”

“Then I don’t think you have to worry.” At least, not as much. But he seemed scared enough already, so she kept that to herself.

And Dante, thankfully, kept his mouth shut for the rest of the walk. Scarlet couldn’t handle any more questions right now. When they arrived, Scarlet gestured to the door across from her own. “According to Bronwen, that’s your room.”

“Thanks.”

Scarlet was eager to retreat to her room, yet, her curiosity begged to be sated. “Why are you here?”

“My family exiled me. I had to leave my home, and then I got into trouble on the road… Bronwen saved me by bringing me here. I can’t say I know why, but here I am.”

“Why did they exile you?” Scarlet asked, but she knew the answer to her question as soon as she’d asked it. This boy looked Saridi, which meant there was an obvious conclusion.

Dante looked away and cleared his throat. His voice came out scratchy. “I got caught using magic.”

“You know Riordan is in the wrong, don’t you? Magic belongs to mortals just as much as the gods. It’s not bad.”

“Isn’t it?” There was an edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “I lost my home, my friends, my family. My whole life is gone because of magic. How is that not bad?”

“You didn’t lose your life because of magic. You lost it because Riordan is the king, and he wants all the power for himself.”

Dante tensed up. Maybe that hadn’t been the right thing to say. But in her case, magic was the only thing that gave her any hope. She had to get strong enough to defend herself from Riordan and to escape the Crossworld.

“I don’t know what to think,” Dante said. “But I’m going to get settled in, because there isn’t anything I can do about it now.” He entered his room and shut the door firmly behind him.

Scarlet went to her own room. She laid in bed face up, staring at the ceiling, tracing the patterns in the stone with her eyes. Taking pity on anyone without compensation didn’t seem like Death’s style, and she doubted Bronwen could have brought him here without Death’s permission. Dante was a mage, so perhaps he was meant to become an emissary.

She hoped for his sake that he wasn’t.