Now, in the throne room, everyone was quiet with fear. Isla had never seen Oro so angry. The only person who dared even look at her was Soren.
“Treason has been committed,” Oro said, his eyes pure fire. His voice thundered through the room. He was standing in front of his throne, addressing a hall filled with all the nobles and representatives across the island. Azul stood down the steps, to his side.
Isla was next to him. Her skin had been scraped away; parts of her stomach had needed Wildling elixir to piece back together. The salt water had made the pain unbearable. Every sweep of the fabric of her dress even now was torture, but Isla wanted to stand here, in front of them, as a demonstration of strength.
“A ruler was attacked. Let it be known that anyone who is found associated with this group of rebels will be strung across the cliffs in the Bay of Teeth.” It was a torturous death, according to Azul. Sea creatures as large as entire parts of the castle lived there, in waters so deep it was rumored no one had ever seen their bottom. “Any ill will toward the Wildling realm stops now. A Wildling broke your curses. This Wildling is the reason Lightlark still stands. You will treat her and her realm with respect, or you will find another place to live.”
The representatives quickly filed out of the throne room when the king was finished. Soren was last to leave, and Isla had the unsettling feeling that he was going to talk to her. In the end, he simply turned and left.
Azul approached, with two guards behind him. “This is Avel and Ciel,” he said. “Two of Sky Isle’s best warriors. They have volunteered to be in your service for as long as you require them.” Guards. They wanted to keep her safe. Avel was a towering blond woman, with her head shaved nearly all the way down. Ciel was the same height, with the same color hair, though his grew long. Their features were almost identical. Twins, she assumed.
The idea that someone outside of her realm, who had no link to her at all, wanted to help her . . . it made her eyes burn with emotion. Not everyone on this island hated her because she was a Wildling, she thought. Not everyone wanted to hurt her.
“Are you sure?” Isla asked them.
In unison, they knelt in front of her, bowing their heads and offering their sapphire-tipped daggers. “You broke the curses, Ruler. We are forever in your debt.”
Isla shook her head. “No. No—you are not,” she said. She thought about the rebels and their attack. “But I will accept your services, at least for the time being.”
She thanked Avel and Ciel, then asked them for privacy. They stood watch outside the doors of the throne room.
Only she and Oro remained inside. By the time she walked up the steps to Oro, he was sitting slouched over, his head lowered. One of his hands dragged down his face. He startled as she knelt before him, so their gazes could be level.
His eyes were bloodshot and devastated.
“I will find them,” he said.
She put her hand on his cheek. For a moment, he stiffened, like he wasn’t used to being touched—who would dare touch the king?—but a second later, he leaned into her palm. “I know,” she said.
“If they had killed you, I—” He closed his eyes, and the heat of his anger was like a wall, mixed with the tinge of something heavier. Sadness.
“I know,” she said again, because she would feel the same way if something happened to him. Their love was a shining link between them. She felt it, lustrous, as she leaned her forehead against his. “I’m here. We’re both here. We’re both fine.”
His eyes dipped to where her dress had partially fallen open, showcasing some of her remaining scars, including the one over her heart, where an arrow had pierced her during the Centennial. No amount of elixir had been able to fade it. She leaned back so the dress fell closed again.
“The healers said I won’t even have a mark from the attack by the end of the week.” She had been treated by some of the Moonlings who had remained in the castle with those injured by the dreks.
“You shouldn’t have a mark to begin with.”
“Oro,” she said. He didn’t meet her eyes. He was looking past her, likely imagining the dozens of ways he was going to torture the rebels once he finally found them. “I want to start my training.”
That got his attention.
“With the dreks, I tried—” She winced against the memories of limbs being torn away, of screeches blowing out her eardrums. “I attempted to use the powers. I really did. Even with people dying around me, I couldn’t summon my abilities. I couldn’t save them.” She grimaced. “But then, underground . . . I didn’t even try, I didn’t even think about it, and I became a weapon. I’m glad I did, but you were right. I want to learn to control my powers so they don’t control me.”
He nodded, looking determined, relieved, like she had given him something to do to help keep her safe.
“You said you had thought of a way to attempt to untangle them?” she asked.
His relief faltered. “Yes,” he said. “But you’re not going to like it.”
UNLEASHED
Remlar was grinning like someone who had boldly declared the future, then watched it come true. Oro’s glare did nothing to dim that smile.
“I told you she would return willingly,” the winged man said. During the Centennial, he’d told them, I want the Wildling to visit me. Once this is all over . . . she will come willingly, I assure you.
He had known, Isla realized. Back then, when he had said that she was curious . . . born so strangely, she had believed Remlar was talking about her secret, her powerlessness, but now she understood. He had known then she was Nightshade.
“Tell me, King, you weren’t that naive,” Remlar said. “She is so very clearly touched by night.”
“Enough.” Oro’s voice was sharp. “Can you unravel her powers?”
Remlar nodded. He was an ancient creature. Isla didn’t know the extent of his abilities, but she sensed he was older than she could even imagine. He had dark hair, like Grim’s. Was he truly a Nightshade? How was that possible?
“Do it,” Isla said.
Oro looked at her. “You have a choice. You don’t have to—”
“I know,” she said. Then, again to Remlar she said, “Do it.”
Before Remlar could move an inch, Oro took a step toward the winged figure. “If you hurt her,” he said, voice lethally calm, “she will kill you. And then I will find a way to revive you so I can kill you again with my own bare hands.”
The threat made Isla’s own mouth go dry, but Remlar, who clearly had put a very low value on his life, just grinned wider. “I would expect nothing less, King,” he said. “But she has nothing to fear from me. She’s one of us.”
Us.
It was foolish, but something in her swelled at the word. When so many had rejected her, someone—even someone like Remlar—claiming her . . . it felt good.
He walked over to her, clicking his tongue. His wings twitched as he studied her, mumbling to himself. His skin was the blue of a bird’s egg. His stride was feline, graceful, and his eyes were as sharp as his teeth.
His grin became wicked. “You might want to run,” he said casually to Oro. “Or, better yet, fly.”