And then he grabbed the lightsword and prayed—

Goddess, give me light.

—and pulled the sword out.

The window gave. Space grabbed him by its icy fingers and pulled him out.

At the same moment, Di grabbed his hand—

A strange tingling sensation prickled in his belly. He knew this feeling, as the Messier’s metal fingers brushed against the thin skin of his wrist, trying to hold on—

The sight took hold so viscerally, he convulsed, spiraling up into the galaxy far away. It was different from every other time he used his powers, a simple series of constellations, but these stars were—

They were everywhere.

In the past. The future.

Galaxies far away and then so suddenly the next sun over—entire lifetimes lacing together as though they all lived in one touch. Linked together, bright and burning and . . . and alive.

It was as if he wasn’t seeing one star—but many. Too many.

A soul made of stars.

He felt his powers stretch and thin, the light inside him burning away in a single bright flash, so terribly quickly it stole the breath right out of him. Images raced across his eyes, swirling up through his flesh, dancing in an intricate waltz to a song that was so loud it shrieked—

He wanted to say good-bye to Robb. He wished he could have. He regretted not.

But there was no time, and not enough light inside his own soul to read a thousand others. It felt like wasting away in a dark room, light leaving every pore until he could no longer breathe, no longer think, no longer exist—so quickly it was over in a flash.

One moment he was there, and the next he was gone, and his body drifted out into the coldness of space.

II

Starless

Emperor

The Solani slipped out of his grip, his lips paled to blue, frost swirling across his skin, violet eyes wide and vacant.

Like light bulbs burned out.

He tried to reach out again, but space had pulled him too far away. The Solani—he—he remembered the Solani. So much younger, thirteen, sitting at a table, winning Wicked Luck rounds, grinning over his cards with a toothpick tucked into the corner of his mouth. “You wanna bet anything?” the memory asked.

“It would not be fair,” a strange voice replied. Twisted, garbled like static—a damaged voice box. His? But . . . not.

“Come on, metalhead! All’s fair if you use what you’re given.”

“I was made with these traits.”

And then the Solani grinned, wider than ever. “So was I.”

Now that Solani was dead.

He was dead.

He was dead.

Why do you care? he asked himself. Why do you care? Why do you care he is dead? Why do you—

A sound invaded his head. A scream—his? It tore into his programming like a white-hot dagger, and he winced away from it. Out of the XO, and into his body in the bedroom of the Iron Palace. He had just returned from Nevaeh, still clad in his diamond-embedded black robes and golden jewelry, and he was alone. The room was dark and quiet. Moonlight spilled in from between the crimson curtains, the light flaring so bright it hurt his eyes.