Isla panted, the anger and sadness stuck in her chest. She closed her eyes tightly as tears swept down her cheeks. She flung her arm to the side, and shadows destroyed the rest of the orbs.
All were empty, except for one. When it shattered against the wall, something slowly floated down to the floor.
A single silver feather.
Isla stepped forward. She leaned down to take it between her fingers. It had a sharpened tip, almost like a quill for writing.
Why would Aurora put a quill in an orb?
There wasn’t any ink on its bottom, but Isla tried to write on a piece of parchment anyway. Nothing.
The room was in ruins. It looked like a giant beast had broken in and tried to claw its way out. It pleased some part of her to see it destroyed.
“I hate you,” Isla said to what was left of the bedroom.
She took the feather with her.
It was late afternoon, when shadows were the longest. The ones the trees cast were uniform, and pliable under her command. Remlar sat on a high branch as Isla turned in a circle, roping them all together. Once they were tied, she flicked her wrist and snapped them like a whip. Their sharp edge cut a row of trees down.
“Learn that in one of your memories?” Remlar called from above.
Isla ignored him. She replaced the trees that she had destroyed with new ones. That was her rule. Replace everything she ruined.
“Now that war is almost here, I feel the need to remind you that not all life can be restored,” Remlar said. “At least, not on Lightlark.”
Her teeth came together. She was aware of that fact, and it ate at her.
If Oro was right, and Grim really was declaring war over her . . . that would mean every death would be on her hands. She couldn’t take it—couldn’t live with it.
She still didn’t understand. In her memories . . . they didn’t love each other at all.
Darkness pooled out of her as she flung her hand out. It shot through the forest, destroying everything in its path. Something about using her Nightshade abilities was therapeutic. It was like letting the worst part of herself out.
Remlar floated down from the tree, landing firmly in front of her. He looked pleased. “Your darkness is blooming,” he told her, eyes trailing over the path her shadows had made. She had obliterated part of the forest.
“It is,” Isla agreed. She had felt it, inside. Uncurling. Awakening. She was remembering more and more. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“You shouldn’t be afraid,” Remlar said. “You should use it.”
“Use it how?”
“War is days away. Me and my people”—he nodded at the hive—“plan to fight. There are other creatures on Lightlark touched by night that would join you, if you asked.”
She shook her head. “No, they wouldn’t. I have asked.” She thought of the serpent-woman on Star Isle.
“Have you asked all of them?”
No. She hadn’t.
“How would I convince them?” she asked. “What would I offer them?”
“You,” he said simply. “You would offer you.”
“Me?”
Remlar nodded. “It has been thousands of years since a single person wielded both Nightshade and Wildling power. You cannot begin to understand what that means.” It reminded her of the reverence with which the Vinderland had treated her.
“Tell me what it means,” she almost begged.
“You don’t need me to tell you,” he said. “You will see yourself.” He motioned around him. “The creatures as old as me on the island will join you. They will immediately understand what you are.”
“And what is that?” she asked.
He looked at her, and she saw a gleam in his eye. “Hope.”
“Hope?” she asked, before turning toward a sudden trickling sound. A column of water was impossibly falling from the sky.
She blinked, and the rest of the forest fell away.
BEFORE
The bath was almost full. The water was murky, darker than a bog. She could see the pillar of water from his bedroom.
“Medicinal,” Grim said gruffly. “Helps with healing.” He began to shed his clothing, revealing deep gashes that would have been deadly for anyone without a ruler’s power.
They had visited the cave five times. Each visit, they uncovered another enchantment designed to keep thieves out. Grim always took most of the impact, but that day, when a million ice chips had rained down from the ceiling, some had cut down her arms, face, and back before he’d pulled her out of the way.
Isla winced as she reached to pull her starstick from its place against her spine. Her skin was coated in blood. Her vial of healing elixir was steadily running out. She would have to sneak into Poppy’s quarters while she was sleeping if she wanted to get more.
“Stay.”
The word was followed by silence. It was said matter-of-factly. Flatly.
“Stay?”
Grim was down to just his pants. His chest was a canvas of gashes, blood, and, of course, the mark oh so close to his heart. “The bath is big enough for two. It will help you not scar.”
Isla just stared at him.
He didn’t leer or make a suggestive comment. It seemed he was too tired to even say anything worth glaring at him over.
“I’ll face the other direction.”
Isla found she was too tired to turn down the offer of a warm bath with healing properties. But . . .
“I can’t,” she said. “Remember?” It seemed like years since they had dueled.
Before she could say another word, Grim said, “I take back my win. You’re welcome in every part of my palace.”
Isla told herself it was shock that made her step into the bathroom. True to his word, at least this time, Grim turned around. She did too.
The sound of his pants being discarded seemed to echo through the vast bathroom. Then, the sound of water parting, letting him in, settling around him.
She didn’t check to see if he was facing away as she peeled her own clothes off. It was a painful process. Fabric stuck to her wounds, blood making a most inconvenient adhesive. She made a small sound of pain and hoped he didn’t hear it, though she knew he heard everything. The shuffling of her pants being rolled down past her ankles. Her fingers unraveling her braid.
The groan as she placed a leg into the tub, chills sweeping up the back of her calf and up her spine, burrowing into the crown of her skull.
Grim was very still as she lowered herself completely. All she saw was his back, tight in its rigid posture, his shoulders nearly as wide as the tub itself. Everything else was hidden beneath the dark water, swirling with healing enchantment.
“You can turn around,” she said. He did not move an inch. “The water . . . it covers everything.” It was true. The only part of her that was visible was her head, framed by wet hair, her shoulders, and collarbones.
Seconds passed. Tripped over themselves. Finally, though, he turned.
She was pressed against one side. He was pressed against the other. The tub was enormous; they might as well have been on opposite sides of the room. They just stared. No words were exchanged, but she saw an understanding there. Two people who had fought back-to-back for something they both wanted more than almost anything. A chance to save their people.
The water became clearer and clearer, the medicine dissolving, until Isla crossed her legs, pressed them to her chest, and looked away when Grim did no such thing.