Tomorrow, she would face Lark. She would face her fate.
Her island was quiet. She could hear the waves wash ashore, could feel the forest breathe in and out.
She was on Lynx’s back. She thought he might like to see it too. He had gone still beneath her, the moment they portaled here. His ears had sharpened.
“What do you think?” she asked him. In response, he took off.
Isla was nearly thrown off his back. She had to press herself against his spine, fingers full of his fur, to hang on. “What are you doing?” she asked, as he crashed through the forest that she had come to know.
He didn’t slow or waver. He traveled down paths she had never walked before, up hills, into valleys, with confidence.
As if he had been here before.
Isla slid farther up, to press her hand between his eyes. That was when
she saw them. Flashes of memories Lynx gave her, melting into the present.
Her parents, here, on this island. Eating fruit from the trees. Riding Lynx. Building bonfires and—
The forest parted. Lynx came to a stop, right in front of a house that had been overtaken by the woods.
“No,” she said, slipping off Lynx’s back. She had come here dozens of times in the last few weeks and had never happened upon it.
He pressed his nose against her back, and she watched her parents build this place. Every bit of wood, every decoration, every rock. They portaled in some of their favorite things and made it a home. For the two of them.
No . . . not just for the two of them.
In one of the memories, she watched her mom laugh, then turn toward Lynx. Her stomach was rounded, full. Her hands stroked down it.
Her. They had made it for her too. Isla walked into the house.
In the last two decades, it had been overtaken. Vines crept inside,
creatures scuttled in the corners. Cobwebs stuck against the ceiling. But parts of her parent’s history had remained.
A lopsided table, with chairs that had clearly been made by hand.
Paintings of Lynx and her father . . . she recognized him from her bonded’s memories. Her mother had been a painter.
On the center of the table, there was a piece of paper covered in a layer of dirt and yellowed by the air and time.
She froze as she read the familiar handwriting atop it. Isla. Her father’s writing. The same as his maps.
With trembling fingers, she unfolded the piece of paper.
My dearest Isla,
You will be born in just a few days, according to your mother. She has fallen asleep in the chair next to me, just minutes after she said she wasn’t tired. I thought this would be as good a time as any to tell you just a little of our story . . . and yours.
Some of this, I’m told, you will know by now. Some might come as a surprise. Let me tell you all of it.
I was working with a man that hated the world, and himself. He sought to find a sword so he could overtake the land his predecessors had lost. I helped him. I visited a blacksmith and gave my blood to make him an amulet that would allow him to walk in the night, like I
could. In exchange, he had the blacksmith make me a portaling device so that I could better help in his mission to find the sword.
I found it, but I was injured in my efforts. I portaled to the Wildling newland, by accident. Your mother found and saved me. She told me that if I gave my ruler the sword, the world would suffer and countless innocents would die in a neverending war. So, after much thought, I decided to make it seem as though I had been lost, the sword unfound, the portaling device destroyed with me. I left my old life behind, and it killed me. But your mother was a light in the darkness.
Her curse meant that the more time we spent together, the more my life was in danger. I decided to do something desperate. I used the portaling device to visit the blacksmith again, risking my entire plan. I begged him to make me another charm, for your mother, out of my blood. In exchange, he wanted death, but, because of his curse, I knew if I killed him, Grim would know I was alive. Instead, I gave him my armor, which had been passed down for generations. It had original power in it, and he accepted. He made me the necklace.
I wasn’t sure if it was going to work, but it did. Your mother still needed blood to survive, but she could fall in love with me without feeling compelled to kill me.
I wish I could tell you every detail of our story, Isla, but it will have to be saved for a different time. I can tell you this, though. In the early days of meeting your mother, I could not stay on the Wildling newland. She was under near constant supervision, and my presence would have been noted. So, every night, I would return to a place I had discovered years before, when my ruler had first given me use of the portaling device. An uncharted island so lovely, I called it by the name I always wanted to give my future daughter—Isla.
Each day before I left your mother, I would take one of her favorite flowers or fruits from her garden. It would annoy her endlessly. She thought I was doing it to be cruel, but I was planting it here. On this island. So that it would be made up of all her favorite things.
Every fruit, every flower, every animal, every insect on this island was loved by your mother, Isla. And she was loved, let me tell you.
When she was with child, your mother began having strange dreams. She started to believe that our child would be born at the cusp of a new era. And that she would either save our world . . . or end it.
Did you ever wonder what your mother’s flair was? She never told her guardians, so I’m guessing you don’t know.
Your mother could see the future, Isla. And that is how we know that your life will be a difficult one.
It is how I know you will read this letter on the eve of a day that will change your life, and this world, forever.
It is how I know what your flair will be.
It is how I know your birth will kill us both.
If you feel guilt for what you did, let me put an end to it. We knew what would happen if we chose to have you, Isla. We knew all that would occur. We made a choice, and we have never once regretted it.
You will have my flair. You will not know the pain of the curses.
But you will not have your mother’s, not yet. We took another trip to the blacksmith, and your mother told him he would die within the next quarter of a century. He was so pleased, he did us the favor of creating a vessel for your mother’s flair. She wanted it to be your choice, to know
the future, or not. She knows you will make many hard choices.
Your mother’s flair is here. It’s been waiting for you. Take it, and you will know everything.
You might be wondering how I can be so cavalier about my own imminent death. The truth is, my regard for my own life is nothing compared to my regard for your mother’s. From the moment I met her, I loved her. From the moment we were married, I swore to protect her from anything that would ever cause her danger. I have killed anything that ever sought to harm her. There has only ever been one person I
have loved more than your mother, Isla. Only one person I could bear losing her for.
And that is you.
Tears swept down her face, falling onto the page. They knew. They knew she would kill them, and they had her regardless.
They knew everything that would happen to her. And still . . . they believed in her. They believed she would make the right choices.
Beside the letter was a bracelet. She recognized the blacksmith’s work.
It had a tiny charm. A vial.
Somehow, she knew, breaking the tiny vial would mean claiming her mother’s power. Knowing the future.
Knowing whether she would be able to change her fate. Knowing which of the two men she loved would live.
Part of her wanted to break it, take it, know immediately to stop the doubt and pain. Another part didn’t want to know. Just wanted to stick to her plan.
She fastened the bracelet onto her wrist.
Then, she got on Lynx’s back, pet him between the ears, and said, “Let’s go home.”
Her plans were in place. Her hair was still wet, her arm burned, and her muscles were sore from everything she had prepared.
Everyone knew their orders. Grim was making sure of it now.
Lynx was sleeping peacefully in the middle of the hall of the winter palace. She heard him release a low growl and knew exactly what that meant.
She turned, nearly crashing right into Grim.
Isla hadn’t seen him so exhausted in a while. His shadows were pulled in tighter than usual. His posture was slightly bent.
Still, he picked her up by the backs of her legs and set her on the dining table she had been pacing beside. “You’re disappointed,” he said, his cold nose running up the side of her neck, making her shiver. “Why?”
“Hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to read someone’s emotions without their permission?”
“Yes,” he said into her neck. “My wife. Constantly.” He looked up at her. “Why disappointment, heart? Did I do something?”
She shook her head. “No. Of course not. Did—did everything go well?”
He sighed. “Took just about all my power, but yes. We evacuated everyone on this side of Nightshade, split between every isle. Every
newland. I’ve never portaled so much in one day in my life, but they’re all safe.”
Good. That was good.
Tomorrow, Nightshade would not be a habitable place. The storms would be worse than any of them had experienced before.
“And Oro?”
“Alive. For now,” he said.
She gave him a withering look. “He’s ready.”
“Lark hasn’t surfaced?”
He shook his head. “No. Astria and Enya are taking turns on watch. I just saw them. Neither has spotted her.”
Good. She sighed against his chest.
He looked down at her, expectantly, still not over the fact that she, for a fleeting moment, had felt disappointment. She shook her head. “It’s nothing. With everything going on, it means nothing.” He only continued to wait. “It’s just—you look tired. And I had . . . I . . .” She made to move off
the table, but he stopped her with a gentle hand against her hip.
“Ah,” he said. “A final night together in case we all die a gruesome death tomorrow?”
“Something like that,” was all she said.
His eyes darkened. “I’m never too tired to take my wife to bed,” he said. “Unless you had planned something with portaling involved, in which case, you’ll have to—”
She tried to pinch his stomach and found nothing but a little skin. Still, he feigned hurt. He smiled, and Isla died a little inside.
His grin withered. “What is it?”
“The storm . . . the portal . . . I worry it will destroy this castle.” The
entire back of the house was made of glass. She looked around. “This is the only real home you’ve ever had, and it could be destroyed. You must be
devastated.”
Grim nodded, understanding. “Of course I am,” he admitted. “But I haven’t lived here for centuries. I haven’t felt as much of an attachment as you think.” He dragged his fingers through her hair, his palm cupped her face. “And this isn’t my home,” he said. “Not anymore. My home is wherever you are.”
A tear slipped down her cheek, and before Grim could notice, she crushed her lips to his. At first, their kiss was gentle. Loving. Then it was desperate.
He parted her lips with his tongue, and she groaned as he tasted her thoroughly, stroking the top of her mouth, her tongue, her teeth. He nipped her bottom lip, then licked over the hurt, and a jolt of pleasure raced down her spine.
Her hips ground forward, desperate for any type of friction; and slowly, so slowly, his long fingers traced up the inside of her thigh, bringing her
dress with them. His thumb made slow, teasing strokes, so close to where she needed him, before he pulled the hem of her dress up to her hip in one rough motion. Grim seemed to go preternaturally still as he realized she wasn’t wearing anything beneath it.
“Hearteater,” he said, his voice strained. “Are you trying to kill me?” “Yes,” she said.
“Good. Now open your legs for me.”
She did as he asked and arched as his knuckles brushed straight down the center of her, his touch featherlight, his skin cold against her heated skin. He growled at her want, at the way she clutched his shoulders like he was her anchor, at the way she tipped her head back as his fingers made long, languid strokes right where she needed him. At the way she cried out when he finally filled her.
“That noise,” he said, his voice filled with such brutal want that she met his gaze again. His eyes had gone almost wholly black, darkened with desire, and he slowly leaned down, curled his hand around the back of her neck, and said right against her lips, “Make it again.”
She did. Again and again as she shamelessly ground against his hand, chasing her pleasure with abandon. His thumb traced her pulse, then dragged down her neck to her sensitive chest. He caressed it, back and forth, pace quickening. She panted into his mouth as she matched his pace with her hips; as she tensed, then broke, pulsing around him.
He gently removed his fingers, and she was left wanting—but not for long.
She was in his arms in an instant. He kissed her, dragging her swollen bottom lip through his teeth. His lips didn’t leave hers as he ripped her dress off her, seams splitting, buttons flying, until it was just shreds of fabric on
the floor. She didn’t even yell at him. All she did was fumble with his clothes, before giving up and turning them to ash as he pressed her to the window. The glass was cold against her spine, and she gasped. Her ankles locked behind him.
Grim didn’t waste a moment. Hands curled beneath her backside, he went in and in and in, and she didn’t know if she would ever get used to the size of him, the feel of him.
“Wife,” he breathed against her neck when he was fully in, his arms trembling with restraint as he waited for her to adjust to him.
“Husband,” she said, right into the shell of his ear.
That one word seemed to be his undoing. He dragged his teeth down her neck as he drove into her in one brutal stroke, slow and deep, reaching a
place that was all pulsing nerves. She made a sound she had never made before, and he laughed darkly against her throat. “There?” he said, and she nodded furiously. There. He hit that place again, and she buried her face in his shoulder, digging her teeth into it to keep from screaming.
More—she needed more, and he seemed to sense that, because his strokes became wilder, until he was moving so hard and fast, she didn’t know how the windows didn’t shatter behind her.
He held her close, one arm around her back and the other holding her hip, her sensitive chest dragging against his cold skin.
“I love you,” she said in a quiet gasp in his ear.
“I love only you,” he said. Then, both of his hands gripped her hips, and he took her harder, like he could fuse their very souls together, like he could show her his love with every movement. She clung to him through it all, meeting him stroke for stroke, spine sliding against the glass, their
foreheads pressed together and gazes locked, until she clenched, and he cursed. He buried into her in one long stroke, and they crested together, holding each other through the pulsing, blinding pleasure.
Only later, when they were washing off, did he say, “We’re infinite, heart. Never forget that.”
She hoped he was right.
The skies were clear above the winter castle. That would change soon, she thought, as she stared out the windows.
She turned around to find Grim already dressed for battle. He wore
sheets of metal and armor, with a sword on his back, its hilt peeking over his shoulder.
He looked like death itself.
She was in lighter clothing, fitted for the role she would play. Grim would be on the ground, with Lynx . . . she would be in the skies with Wraith.
Her leopard didn’t seem too fond of the idea.
Grim had his instructions. “Look for my sign,” she said. He nodded. “I’ll be there. So will Oro.”
“Good. She’s more powerful than all of us. We only have one chance at this.”
She went on her toes to press her lips to his. He held the back of her head, fingers weaving through her hair, and kissed her like it might be the last time he ever did. When she finally pulled away and fell back on her heels, she felt breathless and even less willing to leave. But she had to.
They went outside, where a layer of fresh snow coated everything, even Wraith. The dragon flapped his wings, sending frost flying.
Lynx gave him a long-suffering look, which only intensified when Grim walked toward him.
Grim slowly offered his hand to Lynx’s forehead—a truce. The leopard huffed and turned away.
“Be careful,” Isla said, squeezing Grim’s hand, then looking at Lynx. “Both of you.”
Grim portaled onto the leopard’s back. He gave her one final nod that held all sorts of promises—that today wouldn’t be their last, that they would repeat everything they had done the night before again and again, that they were infinite, and death didn’t stand a chance—and then they left. Isla watched them go, fear and regret clutching her heart.
“It’s just you and me, now,” Isla said, rubbing the place between Wraith’s eyes. They sharpened, as if he could sense battle was coming. Hot breath steamed from his nostrils. Then he leaned down, so she could climb atop him.
She settled in the place Grim had taught her. Curved her hands around the right ridges, and said, “Let’s go.”
An hour before, she had gone to Cronan’s coffin. The portal was invisible, hidden, unreliable. Lark’s power, she guessed, had torn the seam wider, her abilities calling to the otherworld. It, answering. They had fed each other.
But Isla had a piece of the otherworld too. Two of them.
Bracing against the pain, she had made her first skyre with the god- bone, right over her heart, where the heart of Lightlark had marked her.
The pain had been like swallowing a river of fire—power searing through her veins, desperate for an outlet. Soon, it would find it.
But not yet.
Her new skyre pulsed against her skin, the ink swirling, alive. The missing page had been right—bone held more power than blood. She could feel the added strength in her bloodstream, heating it and adding yet another ability to her arsenal.
This was how she was going to open the portal. Closing it, according to the page, would require power from her, Grim, and Oro, along with enchantment.
First, they needed to send Lark away for good.
Wraith soared across the skies, and it wasn’t long before she heard it— the marching of an army. Grim and Oro had been the bait, waiting for Lark to sense them. Bringing her out of hiding.
From high above the clouds, she and Wraith could barely see Grim and Oro—and the endless wave of bloodless soldiers that now surrounded them.
Isla swallowed, and a voice at her side said, “So. Which one’s death would hurt you more?” The voice was angry. Mocking.
Enya. Her fire-wings spread long behind her, crackling.
Isla ignored the question. As easy as it would be to dislike the Sunling, she admired her loyalty to Oro. She was grateful he had someone like her in his life.
“Be careful,” Isla said from Wraith’s back, as the army below inched closer to the men she loved. Enya only raised a brow and said, “Worry about yourself, Isla. I do not die today.” Then, with a wink, she plummeted, her fire-wings growing, expanding, blazing. Just before reaching the ground, she turned sharply to the side, and her wing dragged along the dirt, setting hundreds of bloodless soldiers aflame, scorching the world in a thick line as she shot forward.
She landed and turned sharply, wings curling, wrapping her in swirling flames. Isla watched from above, transfixed, as she tore through the army like a tornado, cutting them down with her fire.
“Impressive. You can say it’s impressive,” a voice purred right behind her. She jumped, nearly losing her balance, only to find Zed lounging behind her, hands resting behind his head, like there wasn’t a battle beginning beneath them.
“Are they ready?” she asked. For her plan to work, everything had to be in place.
He nodded lazily. “Azul gave us everything we needed. And a few things we don’t.” He tapped his pocket, and she shook her head. He
straightened and motioned toward the sea. “Calder gathered a few surprises too. You’ll see them.”
Then he fell right off the side of Wraith’s back, shooting across the clearing in a streak of blue. He landed in the center of a group of bloodless soldiers and cut them down with a curved blade crafted from a sharp wind. It was almost casual, the way he fought—never faltering, never looking like he was exerting too much effort.
Grim and Oro were the opposite. They stood back-to-back and raged. From above, all she saw was ruinous shadow meeting searing flame. Both extinguishing everything in their path.
She never imagined them working together, but Lark had made enemies into allies. She waited a moment, then two, for the signal.
It came in the form of a bell ringing. The same warning as the storm. Astria had been watching Lark. She had emerged.
It was time.
Isla breathed in, and out. Wraith floated, barely moving his wings, keeping them very still, as she slowly rose to her feet.
Her power had been buried. It had been hidden. It had been forgotten.
Now she reached into the deepest depths of herself, farther than she believed possible—
And called it all.
All that is buried eventually rises.
Her powers surged up with the force of a tidal wave, nearly knocking her off Wraith’s back, but she stood firm. Firm, as her power began to rise out of her, simmering, glittering green and red.
It formed a shield around her, a sparkling veil, and she could see all her powers swirling within it. Every person she had already killed. Every ability she had taken so far. It was all there, all within reach.
Her skyres burned, pleading to be used. The new ink, formed from bone and blood, swirled in anticipation, right over her heart.
It was time.
She called it forward and her chest glowed, the skyre’s starlike pattern shining through her clothes, through the sky, like a beam of light. She was
engulfed in power, brimming with it, like she had swallowed the sun and moon and stars and sky and all the universe between them.
Her back bent, her arms splayed out—and she launched it all toward the sky in a beam of unyielding, otherworldly strength.
She was the lightning.
The world thundered in response.
She could feel it across the island, the seam of the portal ripping open, called forward by its power, recognizing it.
From a distance, she saw clouds gathering, forming from nowhere, as if they had been portaled here.
They were dark, heavy, worse than any storm she had seen during the season.
And when they broke open, they did not rain water. They rained creatures.
Scaled, clawed beasts fell from the sky in endless waves.
Grim saw them first. A stampeded of twisted creatures, with far too many limbs and necks and heads, barreling right toward them.
At first, his shadows killed them all. Oro’s fire burned anything that hadn’t become ash.
But then, the rain became droplets of metal. Shademade. And all their powers—including Isla’s—withered away.
The sky turned crimson. A wind toppled her over—she only escaped death by clinging to Wraith’s ridges. She pulled herself up, flattened against his spine, and said, “Wait. Not yet.”
The ground was overrun by snarling creatures, by boneless soldiers who worked as one, surrounding those she loved.
She watched, her skin itching to go there, to fight by their sides, to use her swords the way she had been trained.
But she stayed in the center of the storm as clouds began to circle her. It was quiet. Dark. She could barely see beyond the night-tipped clouds.
That was when a flash of lightning lit the skies for just a moment— revealing that they weren’t clouds at all but shadow-shade beasts.
The light vanished. Isla trembled against Wraith’s back.
And cries like a talon cutting across the night itself filled the sky. She gritted her teeth against the sound, and then Wraith was off—flying as fast
as he could, away from the beasts that trailed them through the storm. He went higher, and higher, past the clouds. For a moment, she thought they had lost them.
Then fangs were illuminated by another flash of lightning, nearly closing upon Wraith’s wing.
“Move!” she screamed, and the dragon ducked, turning, diving headfirst back into the storm. She held on for dear life, sweat-slicked fingers fighting to keep purchase.
The creature did not slow. It chased them through the storm with spiked wings and massive fangs that curled out of its leathery lips, mouth open, ready to swallow them whole.
Until it was devoured by a creature larger than a mountain.
The dragon shot back, just before it suffered the same fate. Isla swallowed.
The storm itself seemed to still, as the beast straightened to its full height—and roared from half a dozen mouths. It had wings that wholly blocked the sky, and six heads, each bigger than Wraith.
Slowly, very slowly, each of those heads turned its sights on them. That’s when she saw Lark sitting on the creature’s back, watching her.
There would be no out-flying them. The creature was too large. Her powers didn’t work up here.
Wraith trembled below, but his wings flared out. He didn’t run. He was ready to look certain death in the face, with her.
She pressed a hand against his spine, remembering him as a tiny bundle of scales. Remembering him crying because of his injury. Remembering him healing. Getting stronger.
She was so proud of him.
So proud that when the beast lurched forward, he did not falter. He shot toward it without slowing down, his head bent low.
Determined. Brave. Knowing he didn’t have a chance but trying anyway.
There were only yards between them.
That was when Isla dragged her sword from her scabbard and grinned wickedly at the look on Lark’s face as she recognized it.
Cronan’s sword.
She lifted it over her head and roared.
And the world itself seemed to tremble. Cries cleaved through the air, through the ground, a scar of land parting somewhere close by. Then, the sun was blocked out by a thousand pairs of wings.
Dreks.
They shot through the air like throwing stars, burying themselves into the creature. It bellowed. Its many heads tried to catch each drek, but they
were too large, and the winged beasts were too quick. Too small. Soon, they swarmed the creature and Lark. They ate through the beast’s flesh, infusing it with their poison, the same darkened veins that she had once seen on Grim. The wounds festered before her very eyes, and the creature dropped a few feet, off-balance, blinded by the rush of wings.
Isla stood on Wraith’s back again and shot forward.
Some of the dreks surrounded her, like a legion, illuminated through the storm by the rings they carried in their talons.
Azul’s rings. Hundreds of them.
Hundreds of storms. Power, trapped inside, that she could unleash, even in the metal. That she could control.
She lifted the sword again, in command, and the orbs all shattered.
Energy filled the sky, freed from the stones. Each storm orbited around her like rings of ability, so fast they became streaks of color. With a roar,
she shot them all forward at the mountainous beast.
One head was slayed by a blizzard concentrated into a blade. Another by the force of a tidal wave she had morphed into a scythe. A third by a
hurricane that went right through one of its throats. Storm after storm attacked the beast at every angle, until there was only one head left.
Wraith flew between two headless necks, turned sharply, and from her place standing on his back, the storm winds she now controlled keeping her balance, she made a blade of monsoons and floods and twisters, and chopped the final head off herself.
The beast dropped from the sky, taking Lark with it.
Her storms raged, painting it her own shade of oceans and snow and hurricanes and sandstorms and ice all controlled by her, all melding together to create the storm to end all storms. Arms shaking with strength
and effort, she shaped them all into a single orb that she shrank down before adding it to her belt.
She turned Wraith around in a circle three times, marking the signal.
Grim would get Oro. They would meet her at Ferrar’s forge.
First, they needed Lark.
Calder was instructed to find Lark’s broken body below and trap its pieces in ice, so she couldn’t heal.
She needed to meet Oro and Grim at the forge. Their plan was almost complete.
First, though, there was something she needed to do.
Isla took off into the sky, on Wraith’s back. She traveled to the winter palace for one final preparation.
She was walking by the wide windows of the dining room when she noticed the snow. It was increasing. Falling faster than usual. Drops became a flurry, and then sheets, so white and thick she could barely see the gardens through them. It rushed downward faster and faster, and she took a step back, but it was too late.
The snow turned to water that broke through every pane of glass. The wave sent her across the floor, as she fought for purchase. She clung to the dining table, to chairs, to the window, but it was persistent.
It was no use fighting as it pulled her under.
She gasped as she crashed through the surface, desperate for air. She swallowed it in large gulps, her eyes blinking wildly, her body numb beneath her. When her vision cleared, she saw she was in the center of the long fountain behind the palace, in the middle of the garden.
Cleo and Lark stood before her.
The Wildling was supposed to be in pieces. She was supposed to be frozen solid.
Cleo. Isla bared her teeth at the Moonling. She hoped Calder hadn’t been hurt.
Cleo responded by pulling Isla under again, and she thrashed against the water, fighting to summon some power—but she had been submerged for too long. Her body might as well have been ice. Her abilities had sunk to a place deep behind her ribs.
She broke the surface again, shaking wildly from the cold, coughing. Lynx roared from across the gardens. She heard him thrash, as if fighting against restraints, and her blood heated. Grim had left him here, tied, for
her. He and Oro were waiting in the blacksmith’s forge. They would be wondering what was taking her so long.
“You were right,” Lark said. “She is a slippery one. In fact,” she said, eyes flashing with anger, “I thought you were still in the center of the ground, waiting for me . . . imagine my surprise when I saw you in the storm, on the back of a dragon.” Lark looked at her curiously. “How did you manage to get out of the bracelets, little Wildling?”
Isla spit in her direction and was dragged beneath the water again. She tried to fight against the liquid, to control it by using Oro’s power, but it slipped between her fingers, as if Cleo had full control over all of it. She was a stronger Moonling. All water and ice and snow encasing the Algid was loyal to her.
“Not yet,” she heard Lark say, and then she was gasping for air again. “I need her alive . . . for now.” She grinned at Isla. Her eyes trailed to her heart and the scar on it that was just nearly visible in her now-sheer, long-sleeved shirt. It was faintly glowing. “Did you think your life was safe, because you hold a shred of the heart of Lightlark?” Her smile grew. “I don’t need it. I just need you. I will drown you in my soil, and then you and your power will belong to me. I will raise you up just like the rest, and you will destroy this world, with all that great ability you hold. And then, with your bones, I will start anew. The world will be built off you, Isla,” she said. “Find peace in knowing your death will have meant something.”
The ground beneath the fountain began trembling. The stone around it fragmented, cracking along its veins. Isla lurched to the side, trying to avoid it.
Lark never took her eyes off her, a smile on her lips, her hand in front of her. Roots broke through the bottom, curling around Isla, pulling her, suffocating her. Dragging her down toward the water.
She would drown, then she would be buried below. She would rise.
Lark would use her for her destruction.
She would become a weapon. She would either save the world . . . or end it.
Lark’s eyes flashed with satisfaction as she watched Isla struggle against the vines. As she watched her try to summon her Wildling ability only to be overpowered. She smiled wider, baring her teeth.
She didn’t even see the blade of ice until it was through her throat. Then it sliced through her chest, and legs, and arms. The ice kept shifting from liquid to solid, over and over, resisting Lark’s healing.
“Thank you,” Isla said to Cleo, and she broke free from the roots that had restrained her. Still on her knees, she thrust her arm into the water, until her fingers curled around the sword that she had thrown inside just minutes before. “Also—you almost killed me.”
Cleo just shrugged a shoulder.
Lark watched, dying and healing, again and again, as Isla slowly rose from the water. She took a step, and metal flew through the garden, into the fountain, curling around her ankle. Then around her leg. The other. She outstretched her arm, and the pieces came together like puzzles, the armor Ferrar had made her from her father’s own locking into place over every inch of skin, until she was luminous and warm. She had hidden it all.
Everything had been planned.
She pulled Cronan’s sword completely out of the water.
“I can’t hold her for long,” Cleo said. “Go. And don’t forget your promise.”
“I won’t.”
The night before, she had visited Cleo and made her a promise. The Moonling had freed Lark from the ice. She had brought her there.
Now was Isla’s turn to follow through with her part of the plan.
She took off through the gardens, listening to Lark’s gargled screams.
The roots beneath her feet began to shift, and she knew she didn’t have long as she tore down the path toward the maze.
A shot of blue sailed through the air, Cleo propelling herself toward the ocean in an arc of ice and water.
Her time was up.
She kept running, until she was at the maze’s mouth.
And Lark was behind her. She was panting, healing, ice falling from her body and crashing against the frozen grass. She stepped into the labyrinth.
It was time.
Isla dug the sword into the grass. With shrieking cries, the dreks emerged and formed a barrier around the maze, encircling it, trapping them within. They moved in sync, as a single, giant being under her command.
Lark looked up at them, then at Isla. “Did you think they could stop
me?” She took a step forward. And even though they were both within the maze, her wounds began to heal, flesh and muscle and bone rebuilding. Her face split into a smile. “Did you think my power would be nullified here?
So close to a door to the place from which I came?” “No,” Isla said. “I didn’t.”
And then she portaled them both to the center of the maze.
He didn’t know what was taking her so long. Grimshaw was pacing the forge, shadows eating away at the newly fallen snow, destroying everything in their path. That was what he did, it was what he was good at. Ruining all that was good in this world.
“Your acute hatred of me is flattering,” the demon said, sensing his emotions. “But best to keep it at bay while we work together.”
Speaking of working together, where was she?
The Nightshade seemed to sense his impatience, his concern, because he gruffly said, “She’s coming.”
“Let’s go to her,” Oro insisted. “She could—”
“She told us to wait here,” Grim said, his anger making the shadows at his feet point like a dozen swords in Oro’s direction. He could see it in his face, though, the concern they shared.
“For what, exactly?” Grim had barely told him anything. “Closing the portal requires all our power. The blacksmith has
enchantments here that can bind our abilities together. She’s going to portal
here, and we’re going to send Lark through for good.”
Oro frowned. He was just about to ask him what the hell kind of plan was that, when a screech clawed the air in half.
Dreks.
They were supposed to be gone now. The storm was over.
Oro stilled, as the realization dawned on him. “She doesn’t need us to open the portal,” he said. “She doesn’t need an enchantment. She has our power. She can do everything herself.”
Fear, potent as anything he had ever felt, filled his chest. “She has her own plan. That was why she only told you. I would have known she was
lying.”
Grim shook his head, still disbelieving. “Why would she lie? What could she possibly have planned?”
Oro tried to think, tried to put the pieces together. “I’m not sure, but she must mean to sacrifice herself in some way,” he said, flames curling from
his palms. “To try to get around the prophecy.”
The Nightshade’s voice seemed to shake the world as he said, very slowly, “What prophecy?”
The portal in the Place of Mirrors was crafted from shade-made
metal . . . with Wildling blood infused. It had taken her time to figure out the technique, with the auger’s help.
“It’s like a shield with a sword-sized gap in it,” he had said, musing.
That was how she had gotten the idea to come to the maze and infuse her own blood into the metal of Cronan’s tomb. How she decided to create a new skyre, from the metal’s blood.
They were one.
Her power slipped through the shield.
She unleashed that power right at Lark as they landed in the center of the labyrinth, sending her shooting back against the maze.
Lark recovered quickly. Her hands were out, and Isla was swallowed by the hedges. Their entire interior was made of thorns like pointed teeth.
Without her armor, they would have ripped her to pieces, but this metal did not scratch, it did not falter.
Isla summoned her strength. She dug deep into herself, to the deepest springs of her power, and began to drag it out.
All the people she had killed, all the death, all the blood, all the dreks, all the things that made her a villain, instead of burying it down, she took hold of it and let it consume her.
Lark was powerful. But so was she.
Isla stepped out of the hedges and felt herself glow, her abilities radiating out of her, circling her in a galaxy.
Lark forced the hedges behind her down—but they passed right through her: a Nightshade skill she had learned. The Wildling sent roots to chain her
ankles and force her onto her knees, but they melted into nothing against her armor and the Starling energy she had coated across it.
The ground beneath Isla parted, attempting to swallow her, but she was faster, making her own tunnel down and appearing behind Lark. She whipped around, but Isla met her vines with a blade of shadow and watched them disappear.
She encased herself in shadows, and every bit of nature Lark threw at her withered away. Lark herself seemed to weaken the closer she got to her, as Isla grew and grew, until her darkness was taller than the hedges. This wasn’t Grim’s power. It was her own. Her father’s. The one she had taken, the one he had willingly given her.
Isla allowed the darkness to claw its way through. She did not fight it, not anymore. It was part of who she was.
Every power she possessed emerged, melding, all six realms’ abilities merging to form something else. Something different.
It was her distraction at finding something new inside that cost her.
Vines shot from the ground and wrapped around and around her head so that she couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, and couldn’t move. Her senses were snuffed out one by one, and she roared just before her mouth was smothered as well, as she felt Lark press a nail into her chest. It was as if she meant to dig right through her flesh, to the part the heart had mended, and take it with her own hands. Isla tried to shoot her powers out into the world; but without most of her senses, she had no focus, no direction.
She whipped wildly around, and she couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think.
She was suffocating beneath the vines. They belonged to Lark; she controlled them. Isla’s arms went limp at her sides. Her chest constricted as she sought air.
That was when she felt it. Them. Oro and Grim. Their bonds to her.
Getting closer.
No.
Lark grinned wickedly. “The most dangerous people are those who don’t fear death, Isla.” Lark didn’t need to. She was impossible to kill.
“I hope you’re right,” Isla said, a smile spreading across her face. Her own body was smothered, useless—but her shadow was not.
It peeled off the ground, and she directed it as if it was another limb, just as Sairsha had. She instructed it to reach into her pocket and remove the
feather hidden inside of it. The shadow began picking off the feather’s barbs, and Isla found the restraints around her loosen. She found the nail that had begun digging into her chest retreating.
Isla took a breath in the space she was given, and unleashed. The vines splattered all around her, and her shadow dropped back onto the floor, but not before handing her the feather.
Lark was on her knees before her, panting, a hand against her chest. “It took me a while to figure it out,” Isla said. “But then I
realized . . . Aurora must have tried talking to you. She must have found out
about you somehow. She must have considered freeing you to get what she wanted. She was Starling. She wouldn’t have put part of her soul in something like a feather . . . but you. You would. And you used her handwriting as your own. This was how you knew where I was. You were already rising, spreading poison through Nightshade, but you couldn’t get out. My blood . . . it freed you, didn’t it, when I pricked my finger?” Lark lurched, but Isla filled her palm with flames. She dipped the feather inside, and Lark twisted unnaturally, roaring. “This must hurt . . . right?” Isla said, barely recognizing her own voice, the beast within her preening at the
sounds of suffering.
She blew the feather out, just halfway to burning. Lark heaved on the ground before her. And Isla took a step toward the coffin. She placed her hand against it, feeling its power rise and her own rushing to meet it. She poured all of herself inside—the Nightshade, Wildling, and Sunling abilities she had gotten through both love and death. She had portaled hundreds of
times with her starstick, and she summoned that ability, Grim’s flair. She shook with her concentration, until she felt the world peel in front of her.
Clouds began to gather overhead.
With a flick of her wrist, the coffin exploded. Only a hole remained. It was dark and endless, a slice of sky breaking open, a burst of color at its center, as if a forever dawn bloomed inside.
“No,” Lark said, still on the ground, choking on her words. “Foolish girl. Push me through, and I will find a way to return. I will come back.”
Isla tilted her head at her. “No,” she said. “You won’t.”
She slung the sword that controlled the dreks across her back. She could feel Oro and Grim fighting against the creatures. She could feel a break in
their shield. At her command, they scattered, ordered not to hurt anyone anymore.
She hadn’t had Zed and Grim steal the sword again to control the dreks, though they had been useful.
No, she needed it because it had been enchanted by Cronan himself. It contained his blood.
Which meant she could find him with it.
Remlar had explained the scroll. He confirmed what she had read in the desert—that a portal could only be closed on the other side.
It was why she had stolen the bone from Oro. Why she had started to shape her own plan.
She hauled Lark from the ground, snapping the vines and roots that sought to keep her. Sending Lark through the portal meant saving this world from destruction. But it also meant Isla’s final chance at redemption.
Lark’s power was bringing the dead back to life. Here, it meant little. It meant creating monsters. But in the otherworld . . . Lark could fully resurrect people. Remlar had told her so. There, Isla could kill her. Isla could take her power.
And she could bring everyone she had ever killed back to life.
There was just one more thing she had needed, in order to use the portal. It was why she had visited the augur the night before.
“The prophet’s scroll says to go to another world, I must know its name . . . but it’s been forgotten.”
The auger nodded. “It was on purpose, you see.” He grinned. “But the prophet knew that . . . so he carved the name into himself before he came here, to ensure he never forgot.” The augur had crawled to the back of his cave and returned with something gleaming white. Presented it to her.
There, in scrawled script, was a word, etched against bone.
The otherworld’s name . . . was Skyshade.
