He’d kissed Violetta right before we left. It was the first time I’d ever seen him finally act on the subtle feelings he’s always expressed around my sister. Now Violetta is at the stern, her eyes trained on his speck on the pier. Sergio, with his mercenaries’ help, is going to command the army while I’m gone. Still, I can’t help but worry. What if he fails? What if I return to my hard-won empire only to find out that there had been an uprising—or that he’s turned his back on me?

Everyone turns their back, the whispers sneer gleefully. Their poison caresses my thoughts. Best if you turn yours first.

“We sail northeast,” Raffaele says the first night as we gather around the dining table. He had crossed over to our ship on a connected gangplank to meet with us. Violetta stays close beside him, while I try to keep as much distance between us as possible. “It will take several weeks if we follow the shortest route, as the northern terns migrate.”

“How do you know where to go?” I ask. “You mentioned the origin of the Elites. Where is it?”

Raffaele runs a finger along the table, drawing an invisible line that represents the border of the Skylands and the sea, and then points to a spot far north of the shore. “Northern Amadera, deep in the ranges.” He glances at each of us in turn. “The Dark of Night.”

“Like in the myths?” Magiano says through a mouthful of dried meat. I’ve heard the tales before too, and now I raise an eyebrow at Raffaele.

Raffaele nods, strands of his silken hair slipping over his shoulder as he goes. “There are four places where the spirits still wander,” he replies, quoting some ancient tome. “The snow-covered Dark of Night, the forgotten paradise of Sobri Elan, the Glass Pillars of Dumon, and the human mind, that eternally mysterious realm where ghosts shall forever walk.”

“They say the Dark of Night is a remnant of the gods,” Lucent adds. “It is sacred land. Priests make pilgrimages there.”

“If you study the chronology of the myths,” Raffaele continues, “the first mentions of the Dark of Night coincide with the fall of Laetes from the heavens. It is known as a sacred place, yes.” He nods at Lucent. “I believe it was created by the tear between the immortal world and the mortal. It is a place of eternal night, not meant for mortals. The priests you mentioned, Lucent, visit the lands around it. But they do not actually enter the Dark of Night. There are no tales of what is inside this place.”

A land of myth, our destination based purely on Raffaele’s predictions. “You believe it’s the place where only Elites can enter,” I reply.

Raffaele nods. “It is a land of gods.”

“And will Queen Maeve meet us along the way?” Magiano asks. He is sitting beside me, his hand touching the edge of mine. “As soon as we enter the Skylands?”

Raffaele looks at him. “We will meet her at the passage between Beldain and Amadera.”

“After our last confrontation?” Magiano makes a tsk sound. “Are you sure she’ll want to join us? Hard to believe the Beldish queen will let us pass through her territory unharmed after we destroyed her entire fleet—let alone sit on a horse beside us for weeks.”

“It is in Maeve’s best interests to see us succeed,” Raffaele replies coolly.

While Magiano shrugs, I stare at the map. Kenettra is a small nation in this view, as are the other Sealand nations. The Sunlands, including Domacca and Tamoura, seem to stretch endlessly. Even more vast than all of them is the sea, the great divide between the living world and the Underworld.

The extent of my own power suddenly feels insignificant. Our journey will fail, and we will pay for it with our lives.

The next dawn, we sail into the dim light of a dark morning. The ocean has taken on an uneasy color of jet. From the porthole of my quarters, I can see clouds piling on top of one another until it looks as if there were never any such thing as the sky and hear a low growl of thunder echoing from somewhere far away. Had Sergio been on board, he could have told us about this oncoming storm—and done something about it. But this is not a storm of our choosing. This is something the gods have created.

My stomach sinks as the ship pitches on the waves. A tingle of fear runs down my spine and the whispers stir. The Underworld is calling you home, Adelina.

By the time I make it up the ladder and onto the top deck, the heavens have turned even darker. I look out onto the horizon to see that lightning streaks along the edge of the sky. Thunder continues to rumble. Magiano is helping two of the crew tie down barrels and secure the cannons. His robes are coarse linens today, a heavy cloak wrapped tightly around a dark tunic, pants, and boots, and his braids are tied up in a high knot. “We are still ahead of the storm,” he says when I approach him. “But its arms extend far. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to sail around before the worst of it hits us.”

I scan the horizon for any hint of land, but I see nothing except the churning of dark clouds. This tempest is different from the storm we’d faced while battling the Tamourans, where I could conjure images that struck terror into the soldiers we were fighting. But what use are illusions when the enemy we’re facing is nature herself? From the water, I hear another echo of balira wails. There is a pod swimming some distance away from us, heading in the direction opposite the storm.

“Where is Violetta?” I ask. “Have you seen her this morning?”

“She hasn’t come up here.” Magiano nods back toward the ladder. “You should stay belowdecks too. I can take it from here. It may get violent.”