Isla fiddled with the petals on her bodice. That night was Copia. She had helped the Starling tailor make her dress. For fabric, she had bloomed hundreds of flowers, weaving their stems together, blanketing them across his shop floor.
A hand covered her own to stop the picking. It swallowed her own and pressed against her chest in a way that made her suddenly forget whatever errant thought was circling in her mind.
“Flowers don’t pick themselves, remember?” he said, repeating her own drunken words from the Centennial. She hadn’t known he had heard that part.
She smiled and turned to face him. He was golden, in his most official of outfits for the occasion. Isla smoothed the silk of his shirt that required no smoothing whatsoever. “What about kings? Do they pick flowers?”
Oro’s expression was pure promise when he leaned down to say right into her ear, “Only when the flower picks them.”
“Good,” she said. “Because I’m pretty sure you’re going to have to cut me out of this dress.” She turned for him. “See? No strands. No buttons.” In fact, she had molded the dress to herself. With Leto’s instructions to his design, she had woven the dress around her, the flowers coming together, clasping tight, their stems locking her in.
Another fact was that she could certainly undo the dress herself as well, but the alternative was so much more enjoyable.
“Hmm,” Oro said, his voice getting deeper. His mouth brushed against her bare shoulder. His fingers trailed down her spine, where corset ties might have been were this a traditional dress. They did not stop. She felt the heat of his hand sweep across the base of her back before gripping her hip bone. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he said.
“Are you sure?” She blinked innocently at him over her shoulder. “If you’re too busy with your kingly duties, I can ask someone else . . .”
He took her chin in his hand. Tilted her head up to his, so he could say right against her lips, “Tonight, my only kingly duties involve my mouth and whatever you wear beneath a dress like this.”
Isla’s eyes were still the height of innocence as she said, “So, your mouth and . . . nothing?”
Oro cursed, and heat filled the room. They were standing in front of a mirror. She turned her head and watched him look at her like she was the most precious thing in all the realms. And she . . .
She looked happy. She was happy. Her mind had emptied of most of its anxious thoughts. How had that happened?
Oro had happened. He had taken all her broken pieces in his hands and vowed to one day make them whole. He had been patient. Kind. Loving.
Inside, Isla now had a pocket of peace. A slice of sunlight. It was an anchor. If her thoughts ever spiraled, in her darkest hours, she would return here, to this moment she tucked away in that pocket.
Before, she had felt unmoored, betrayed, like she didn’t truly have a home.
Now, he felt like home.
“Look,” she said, fishing a thin golden chain from beneath her dress. The small golden rose hung there, in the center of her chest. She’d made a necklace of it. “It’s heavy, but—”
“You kept it,” he said, almost in awe, his brows coming together. Oro swept his fingers over it, and it became lighter, as if hollowed.
“Of course I kept it,” she said. “It’s us. A rose surrounded in gold.”
Oro didn’t seem to care that he was disrupting all the petals on her dress as he lifted her up.
Isla thought, as he leaned down and kissed her, that she had never been happier in her entire life.
The Mainland gardens were decorated with flowers Isla had bloomed herself. She’d spent all afternoon crafting the decor. The event was meant to showcase her abilities. It only made sense to have her power on display everywhere.
A hundred islanders and newlanders had been invited—not just nobles. In fact, some nobles would find that they were left off the list. People of
every realm sat at the tables, and Isla had seated them all together, not separated, as they so often were.
The most surprising guest of all was Cleo. She had accepted her invitation, and Isla could only hope that it meant the smallest of peace offerings. The Moonling ruler sat perfectly postured, her chin as high as always. Her white hair was tied into a single long braid behind her. Her face didn’t betray a single expression.
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.”
