Isla had never wanted power more in her life. First, the barbs. Then, the assassination attempt at the harbor that was proof her blades meant little on Lightlark.
They did serve well as an outlet for the anger that roiled through her like a storm, though.
She had marched straight into the Starling shop after the assassination attempt and purchased her dagger. One with a curling snake around its hilt, fit for a Wildling. She held it now, cutting the air to pieces. The metal was weightless in her grip. She twirled it around her fingers, threw it up in the air, and caught it without having to look. Mimed stabbing someone right in the gut.
The Moonling nobles flashed in her mind, and she carved her blade through the air, through them.
Her lip curled. She stabbed them all, one by one, the men and the memories.
“Did the wind do something to offend you?”
Isla whirled in an instant, and her dagger flew—piercing the stone of the palace, right above Grim’s dark hair.
He grinned. With a fluid motion, he dug out her dagger and threw it back at her.
She caught it without her gaze ever leaving his.
Grim. Her stomach stumbled for a moment at the sight of him. Then, anger swelled. She glared at him. “I never thought the ruler of Nightshade would be so indecisive.”
“Indecisive?”
Isla took a long step toward him. “Indecisive. You can’t seem to make up your mind. One day, you act like we’re friends, and the next, strangers. You disappear for weeks.”
Grim did not shy away from her gaze. “Which would you prefer?” he asked, as though he truly wanted an answer. “Friends, or strangers?” She
swallowed, begging her emotions to stay in check. “Neither,” she lied. “I just want you to stay away from me. Consistently.”
He stepped toward her. Grinned, just a little. “Is that truly what you want, Hearteater?”
Her breath hitched. He felt her everything.
She turned away before he could feel any more.
Grim’s grin vanished. He suddenly became deathly serious. “We really should stay away from each other,” he said. “That is why you didn’t see me.”
So, he had been avoiding her.
“Why?” she asked, though she could fill in a thousand answers.
He shrugged a shoulder. “I’m the famed Nightshade warrior—thousands of kills on my blade. Everyone hates me. No one trusts me. For good reason. They shouldn’t.” He peered down at her. “You shouldn’t.”
She wanted to ask what he meant. But before she could, he took a step closer. Her hair was wild around her face, and her shirt seemed too tight against her skin—she had changed into pants and a shirt to train. Even though her gowns were all designed for a fatal temptress, at this moment, these training clothes seemed far more revealing.
“You know what it’s like to be hated, don’t you, Hearteater? To be seen as a monster? A savage?”
It was true. Still, it hurt to hear the truth spoken.
“You’re feeling irritated, Hearteater. Do you deny what you are?”
She was breathing heavily. She didn’t even really know why. “No. Do you?”
Grim shook his head. He took a step toward her. “Never. I am the monster.”
Isla knew she should probably run away, or leave, or do something other than take a step even closer. He tilted his head. Something about the way he looked at her, the way he stood so close. Closer than anyone had ever dared.
“I’m not your enemy,” he said, voice softer than she had ever heard it. Then why couldn’t she trust him? Why was he pushing her away?
Why did she even care?
“Prove it,” she dared. “Tell me something.”
“Anything.”
She remembered the king’s words in the forest. The reason he had given for why the rest of the rulers hadn’t simply decided to kill Grim to fulfill the prophecy. “Oro said you are the only thing standing between us and a greater danger. What was he talking about?”
Grim didn’t look particularly surprised by her question. Though he took his time answering it. “There are worse things in this world than the curses. Or even me.”
“Like what?”
He shook his head. “I could tell you. But it would only distract you.
Believe me, right now, the curses are the more pressing danger.”
Isla scowled. Who was he to decide what would and wouldn’t distract her? What was too much to know? Still, she could tell by his tone that he wouldn’t budge.
“Fine. Show me something, then.”
“Anything,” he repeated, though the word meant less now that she knew it had limits.
“Show me where the Wildlings lived when they were on Lightlark.” The request surprised even her. She still hadn’t found the entrance to
Wild Isle. Oro’s comments about it in the woods had only fed her curiosity.
There was so much about her realm she didn’t know.
And now, she was more curious than ever. She wanted the endless power her Wildling ancestors had once possessed. Perhaps they had left something behind. Something that could help her now.
Grim stared at her, and Isla held her breath, wondering if he knew how much she had thought about him in the last few weeks. Wondering if he knew that however hard her heart was beating, however many times his words had already echoed through her mind, he was right—she couldn’t trust him.
And he couldn’t trust her. “Of course, Hearteater.”
Isla did not speak a word as he led her into the Mainland forest, in the shade of the castle. Not far from the crop of coffiner trees, but in the opposite direction. The way was wild. The stone path had long been overtaken by weeds, untamed plants that smothered it completely. Isla flinched as she watched the woods, bracing herself for another attack. Her
back prickled, as if remembering. But the forest did not dare strike her in Grim’s presence. They stepped over vines thick as limbs and under spiderwebs large as umbrellas. Soon, the trees lost their leaves and became sharp, bare branches that resembled clusters of swords. Stones that might have lined a riverbank replaced the grass. She couldn’t see the end of it until she was out of it.
Sunlight blinded her momentarily, and she stilled.
There was a bridge. It was broken in many places. The sides were made of braided vines.
The isle on the other side gave no indication of life. But something about it called to her. Isla stepped onto the bridge first, without hesitation, and was on the other side before she knew it.
The king had been right. There was no life left here.
Wild Isle had been reduced to a forest of hulls. The trees were bare and twisted, skeletons swaying in the wind. The vines and roots along the floor were dry and crunchy beneath their feet. The ground was a mess of broken branches, in the shapes of striking snakes. No animals. No green. No . . . anything.
In the center of death stood a structure.
Grim was by her side. “They call it the Place of Mirrors.”
Every inch of the palace was covered in reflective glass that cast back the bare forest, mirroring its surroundings. Its edges winked in the sunlight.
The Place of Mirrors looked fragile, like a strong wind could shatter it. But it had survived when everything else on Wild Isle hadn’t. It was shaped like the carnival tents she had seen on the outskirts of the Skyling newland with her starstick—bulbous, as if blown up by air, and pointed in three places.
Somehow, though the outside was mirrored, the interior was clear. She stepped inside and saw the razed woods through endless windows, cut in a million shapes. The ceiling was curved.
It was almost empty. Just a few statues remained, along with leaves that had swept inside. Isla walked deeper into the Place of Mirrors to find that the rest of the large palace was not made of glass at all. The walls became stone and opened into what must have once been interior gardens, where the ceiling ended altogether. Dead vines grew up columns. A small fountain now held dark water. She kept walking, into rooms and corridors that had
been left abandoned and overtaken by the dead forest, until she reached its very back wall, which was sturdier than the rest, carved into the base of a mountain.
It was covered in markings, the most prominent a large swirl. The rest depicted battle—men and women dressed in armor, holding swords and shields. Some rode giant beasts she didn’t recognize. She traced the drawings with her fingers.
“Is it everything you hoped it would be?” Grim asked. She turned. “It’s much more.”
“Even if it’s almost empty?”
Isla hadn’t gotten to explore the entirety of the palace, but she guessed she would find it cleared out, the same way the other rooms were.
“The fact that it’s still here . . .” She pressed her palm against the wall. “Gives me hope. That Wildlings can survive all of this.”
Grim was somewhere else—she could see it in his eyes. She wondered what he was thinking about. Every move he made was confusing.
“What are the Nightshade lands like?” she asked, not really knowing why.
Even with her starstick, she hadn’t dared travel to their territory. Terra’s warnings about them had kept her away.
Grim looked at her for a long time. “One day,” he said, “I’ll show you.”
Isla waited for the cloak of darkness before leaving the castle. Oro still hadn’t returned to her door. The night was hers. And she made careful use of it.
She wished for Grim’s power to see easily in the dark as she took the path through the Mainland, the moon her only guide. On their way back, she had made sure to study the route to Wild Isle intently, but everything looked different touched by night.
The path continued too long when it should have disappeared under overgrowth. She must have taken a wrong turn or missed it completely. Soon, she was back at the Mainland castle.
Isla cursed and tried again. She strained to remember the curve of the trees, or the number of steps she had counted hours before while trying her best to mask her emotions around Grim. He couldn’t know that the entire
time he was answering her questions, she was thinking about what she had spotted in the Place of Mirrors—and how soon she could go back. Alone.
She squinted through the darkness, then bent so that her fingers could trail the path, waiting for the wildflowers to begin smothering the stone, marking the place she needed to follow.
If she had Wildling powers, she could simply call to the forest and listen for its reply. Follow its song to the palace.
But she didn’t. So, she continued stumbling blindly through the night.
Finally, grass brushed against her fingers, a second path veering from the first. She followed it to the forest and hesitated. The moon was locked out of the woods, blocked almost completely by hunched-over trees. She would have to feel her way through. And hope the forest was satisfied with the amount of blood she had already shed for it.
Isla ducked her head lower, wondering if she should come back in the morning. She wondered even as she continued through the woods, thorns catching on her ankles. Even as she tripped over a vine and landed on her hands and knees.
No—no one could know about her midnight journey to the Wildling palace.
Not even Grim.
By the time she stumbled into Wild Isle, her hair had been tangled out of its braid, and she felt the sharp sting of cuts across her palms. But even the pain stilled as she regarded the building in front of her.
At night, the Place of Mirrors reflected only darkness. Her light-brown clothes cut through it like a blade. She watched herself peel from the shadows of the bare woods like a specter.
Inside, moonlight showered down once more. The floors above groaned, as if awakened from a slumber. Wooden walls somewhere cracked. Normal ancient palace noises, Isla told herself. Something thudded against the glass above. Just a fallen branch. Still, she quickly made her way through the halls and rooms, only stopping at the back wall.
She had seen it, earlier in the day, with Grim. And knew she had to go back.
Isla recognized the spiral on the wall as a door. It was the same shape as the one hidden within her chambers, beneath a broken panel in her closet.
The same place she had found her starstick, tucked within her mother’s things.
If the Wildlings had a secret door, whatever was inside must have been important enough to hide. And it must still be intact, unlike the rest of the palace.
She had a feeling whatever was inside could help her now. That it held something she needed.
Isla had to get into the vault.
She pushed against the spiral door with all her might, expecting it to creak open with enough effort, just like the one in her room had.
But this one didn’t budge.
Isla studied the wall and spotted a gap. A place for a key. No . . . it was too long for a key to fit. Unless it was massive.
She looked around for something that matched its intricate design, a strange pattern like a miniature mountain range. A short candlestick holder seemed close to the right size. She tried to shove it into the hole, but it didn’t fit. Not even close. She tried getting some vines and fashioning something similar. But when she turned it like she would a key, the vines snapped.
Her back teeth slammed together. If there was a way to open the door, it had to be inside somewhere.
Isla walked up a winding staircase, covered in dead leaves that were a symphony of crunches beneath her feet. She roamed through hall after hall, into room after room, shards of moonlight her only guide. Minutes later, she had an armful of objects that might fit into the hole. An old, abandoned comb. A thin champagne flute. A vase just big enough to hold a single flower. A miniature harp.
She shoved object after object inside, trying them like keys, until dawn peeked through the palace, bathing the glass entrance in violet. But none of them worked.
The door remained closed.
