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.”
Isla didn’t know if Oro heeded his warning. With one rapid motion, Remlar placed one hand against her forehead and another against her heart, and her vision exploded.
Pain tore her in two. Her scream was a guttural rasp; she could hear it even above the ringing in her ears. Tears swept down her cheeks.
She fell to her knees.
Her left hand struck the ground, and darkness erupted from her fingers. It ate through the nature in its path; everything living became cinder. Trees fell and disappeared; the air went gray with swimming shadows.
Her right hand landed, and from it a line of thousands of flowers billowed, rising from the ground in waves, blossoming in rapid succession. Roses, tulips, marigolds—they made a blanket across the forest, color streaming.
The world died and came to life in front of her, and she kept screaming until her voice disappeared in a final croak. It might have been seconds or minutes, but eventually, everything settled, and she stood.
One side of her was total desolation—the other the very definition of fertility.
Oro was in front of her in a moment. “Isla,” he was saying, but it was just a whisper at the end of a tunnel.
She took one step forward. Teetered. “Look at me, love,” he said.
Love. She held on to the word like an anchor, but the thread between them slipped through her fingers—
Darkness won the war and swallowed her whole.
