Caelan stills. “Some of the humans were regaining their awareness. They couldn’t stay in Victory without posing a risk, but I do not believe in needless suffering. I made a decision, and spared them from War.”

He thinks Death is a kindness.

I force a smile and feel tiny pins pricking my skin. “I’m sure your court appreciates your generosity, Your Highness.”

The bells sing, hiding the off-key lilt of my lies.

“You once spoke of coexistence,” he says. “Do you still believe it’s a possibility?”

I shove away instinct and honesty—they have no place here. Because whatever I once said about peace doesn’t matter anymore. There isn’t enough time to change the minds of Residents who want to destroy us. I’m not even sure their minds can be changed, kind and earnest as Caelan may seem. He still answers to a queen, and Ophelia made it very clear where she stands.

And what would happen if Caelan ever found out what I am and how I’ve been lying to him? Would he still talk of possibilities? Or would I become the very darkness he’s worried about?

I have to end this and destroy the Orb on the Night of the Falling Star. If I don’t, coexistence won’t matter. Because if Death succeeds in removing human consciousness from Infinity permanently, humans might not exist at all.

Guilt severs my heart, sending pieces of it scattering in different directions. I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt anyone. And when I look at Caelan, his eyes full of light and longing for a better future…

I try to ignore the way my throat constricts and my rib cage spasms. Because I can’t let myself care about possibilities anymore. I have to protect the Colony and the people I’ve come to view as family.

I’m doing what Gil said—I’m choosing a side.

“I believe if there were ever a chance at true peace, you’re the prince who would find a way to make it happen,” I say finally. It’s the only fragment of truth I can give him.

When he turns to me, his smile is soft. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For seeing me—and for not being afraid.”

We cross the lake and ride the Daylings back to the palace, and all the while I wonder if it was never Prince Caelan anyone had to fear.

It was me.

45

AHMET TURNS THE REAPER BENEATH a lamp, studying its intricacies the way a painter studies each brushstroke. He’s an artist in his own right, and a very good one.

“This should fit just fine,” he says with a nod, motioning for me to pass him my wrist. Slipping the cuff over my bare skin, Ahmet hums. “How does that feel?”