Oro squeezed Isla’s hand under the table. You can do this, he seemed to say.
She could.
Isla stood. She was barefoot. Flowers bloomed with her every step to the center of the celebration.
She did not have to tell them to fall silent; they did that themselves. “Thank you for attending this banquet in honor of my realm,” she said. “This day is meant to celebrate growth.” Her voice sharpened with meaning. “Growth is not limited to our plants, or our realms, but ourselves. No matter what happened before, we can change. Our opinions can change. Hatred can become hope. And I sincerely hope, one day, Wildlings can return to Wild Isle, the way they lived for thousands of years.” There was murmuring, but no one dared say a word against the idea to her face. Isla had to think that was some sort of progress. “On behalf of our realm, we wish you a season of growth . . . in the right direction.”
This was it. This was the moment.
Everyone knew she had been powerless. They knew she didn’t know how to wield.
Isla unraveled her hand, revealing a rare seed she had gotten from the newland. She tossed it in front of her, to the ground below, and everyone watched as it was sucked into the dirt. A moment later, the ground rustled, and a tree formed in front of them, years of growth in just seconds. The bark layered over itself, the branches thickened, leaves decorated, and then fruit blossomed. “This tree has not grown on Lightlark in centuries,” she said. “Its fruit is often called enchanted because of its sweetness.” She turned in a semicircle, and arches of vines and thorns and roses sprouted around the gathering, one after the other.
Whispers. Murmurs. Wide eyes. Curiosity.
Her demonstration worked.
Oro’s hand was on her knee as soon as she sat down. His thumb rubbed down her thigh, and she was suddenly flushed, remembering his promises for that night.
The clatter of silverware against glass plates was a welcomed symphony. At first, conversations at tables between realms seemed quiet, perhaps even tense, but by the end of the dinner, there was laughter. Conversation. Joy, even.
Then, far too soon, everything went silent.
It was as if all noise had been plucked from the island. The candles lining the garden began flickering. Dimming.
Before them, Isla’s tree wilted, branches dehydrating, until it was just a pile of dead leaves.
Then, in an instant, darkness smothered them all.
Everything in the garden turned to ash. Tables were toppled over. Shadows shot down from the sky like strikes of lightning, then raced across the Mainland like tornadoes that had fallen over, erasing everything in their path.
No screams, though mouths were open. No cries, though tears slid down Isla’s cheeks.
She shot out her hand, but no power came out. It was as if everything within her had been extinguished.
No, no—
A blink, and everything returned to how it was.
Isla remembered Grim’s demonstration of power at the Centennial. An illusion. This was an illusion.
Then, his voice was in her head.
It was in all their heads.
“Consider this a warning,” it said. “A glimpse at the future. You have one month to vacate the island. In thirty days, I am coming to destroy it.”
Shouts. Screams.
“Nothing will be left. You can choose to flee to your newlands . . . or join me in a new future. The choice is simple. Fighting is futile. The ruin coming is inevitable.”
HISTORY
Isla flew down from the sky, carried by Ciel and Avel, who each gripped her beneath a shoulder. Before, she would have been afraid of the height. Now, she didn’t have room for such a simple fear. She landed on Cleo’s castle steps and within minutes was surrounded by white-wearing guards. They had sloshing water pouches along their hips, water ready to wield into weapons.
Cleo came sweeping down from one of the highest balconies of the castle, on the back of a waterfall. When she landed, the water froze, a wide white halo around her feet. “The brave little Wildling,” she said. “What have you come to crow?”
“Stay,” Isla said.
The Moonling looked intrigued. “Here I was, thinking we were enemies.”
“You’re not my enemy,” Isla said. “I’ve watched your every move. You always do what’s best for your realm. Leaving Lightlark would be a mistake.”
“Would it?” she said, seeming bored.
“Lightlark is the base of your abilities. If you leave and Lightlark falls, your people won’t last.”
Cleo almost smiled. Surprisingly, it didn’t look cruel. Her expression, more than anything, seemed sad. “You know so little,” she said, her voice empty of any contempt. “You assume you know my motivations. You assume your facts are truth.”
Isla narrowed her eyes. “You found something out before the last Centennial. That’s why you didn’t attend. That’s why you’ve been building ships. That’s why you are considering evacuating your people from Lightlark. Isn’t it?”
Cleo said nothing. The Moonling only tilted her head at Isla, as if appraising a dull rock, searching for any hidden glint.
Isla took a step forward. “Answer me,” she yelled, and thorns grew around her wrists, out of nowhere, trailing down to the floor.
A dozen Moonling guards surrounded her in seconds. Avel and Ciel were at her sides, each of their hands on her arms, ready to fly her to safety. She had her starstick just in case. She felt invincible.
The Moonling frowned at the thorns dripping from Isla’s palms. “What a waste,” Cleo said, then she turned toward the massive, frozen doors of her palace.
“We could work together,” Isla said.
That made the Moonling stop in her tracks. She turned around, the hem of her white dress hissing across the iced-over stone.
Isla took her chance. “Wildlings and Moonlings are more similar than you might like to imagine,” she said. “You have frozen, infertile lands. We have started to learn how to grow crops again. We could help you, so you don’t have to rely on fishing. You can vary your diets.” Lately, Moonlings weren’t seen in the markets. They had almost completely cut themselves off from the other realms.
The Moonling’s expression remained as still as the frost beneath her feet. Unconvinced.
“We are also healers,” she said. “The elixir I demonstrated during the Centennial—we know how to make it. Between your people’s natural healing abilities and the ones we can extract from nature, we could mend almost anything.”
Cleo stared at her for a moment. Another. Then, she turned away again.
“What happened?” Isla asked. “What happened a century ago? Why didn’t you attend the fourth Centennial?”
At that, ice swept across the isle. It rippled in every direction and hardened beneath Isla’s feet. She had to sprout vines from her hands to root her in place, to keep from slipping. Ciel and Avel braced her sides, wind circling around their bodies to keep them still.
Cleo turned. “You dare ask me a question like that?”
Isla took a step forward, beyond her Skyling guards, her roots digging into the ice, keeping her grounded. “I do,” she said. “Something happened. What was it?”
For the fraction of a second, Isla caught a sliver of real emotion that made its way past the Moonling’s normally icy mask. Pain.