The iron key in Maya’s hand was icy cold, almost like she was holding a chunk of winter itself. She stood in the center of a massive stone courtroom. Her heart slammed against her ribs, trapped and frantic. Above her, thousands of people in white robes sat quietly. Their faces blurred into shadows, but their eyes—so many—shone with a faint, bluish light. Kind of like the glow from a computer screen.
"Julian!" Maya’s voice cracked as she screamed his name.
Her shout bounced off the cold stone walls and echoed back. He didn’t appear. The red door was gone. The hotel room was gone. Even the silver locket—the one with the Author’s soul—had vanished.
"Peace, Maya," a man called from a high throne.
He descended the stairs. He walked just like her father, Aris Rossi, wore the same glasses, ha
