The room full of cheers went silent.
Isla made a choking sound as she was thrust into the air, her head pulled back, her arms stiff and wide by her sides. She was floating above the table. Giving everyone in the room a good look at her. Including those metallic markings she wore, like the one on his arm that was starting to burn.
This close, Grim could see her fingers moving, as if, somehow, she was breaking Cronan’s hold. Even if it was just in this small way.
She had courage, he would give her that.
She was also an idiot.
Cronan chuckled, and the rest of the table took it as an invitation to join him. Isla choked, her face draining of color. Cronan said, “Look at her. Fighting in vain for her pathetic planet.”
Isla gasped as Cronan’s shadows lurched through her forehead. And just like that, it was as if her mind had been emptied out as her memories spilled into the room for them to see.
They saw Lightlark. The market. The harbor. They watched a clear assassination attempt on the Wildling by Moonlings. Had it happened during the Centennial? He couldn’t remember. The images shifted, and they watched as Tynan, one of Grim’s former council members, tried to slay her in her sleep. Was that—was that his castle? Was that...his bed? The room changed, and they watched as Isla was tied down by her own people and carved open like the food on the dinner table.
Grim frowned as the men around him laughed, spittle flying from their mouths. “You see,” Cronan said. “Only a fool would have any loyalty to a world that treated her like this.”
Isla shook with fury. Her fingers were twitching even more now as she struggled against Cronan’s hold. Her face was pale, even under all the layers of paint they put on her. Just when Grim was sure she would lose consciousness, Cronan released her. The last memory dissolved in the air above them as Isla roughly fell into her seat. She gasped for air, bent over, her nails clawing at the table.
He noticed something then that made his eyes narrow. He had to give it to the Wildling—she certainly had gall. He shook his head and almost smiled, choosing to keep it to himself. He’d rather see how this played out.
“For your own sake,” Cronan said to Isla, “I hope you learn. I hope you join us.” He gazed at the rest of his dinner guests. “For she would make an excellent queen of ashes, would she not?”
The men at the table nodded eagerly.
“And if she doesn’t come to her senses, will you kill her?” one of the men asked, lazily, as he sipped his goblet. He snapped his fingers, and one of the attendants, a woman with glassy eyes, refilled it immediately.
“Expeditiously,” Cronan said.
“A shame,” the man across from Grim said, his eyes glued to Isla’s chest, which was almost spilling out of this ridiculous dress she was wearing.
He didn’t know why the man’s leering made him want to turn him to dust. The man smiled at him good-naturedly—until he noticed Grim’s withering glare.
Cronan missed nothing. “Is there a problem, Grimshaw?” he asked.
He scowled at the name. He had always hated it. It reminded him of his father, who had never called him anything else. Slowly, he turned toward his ancestor. “No. I just think feasts are a waste of time.”
The room went silent. The other men gaped at him for speaking to Cronan this way. Especially after what he had just done.
But Grim knew his ancestor cared most about the continuation of his line. Especially now, at the precipice of his conquering a new galaxy. And Grim was the only progeny he had left.
Cronan pondered Grim’s words for a few moments. “I agree,” he finally said, far too casually. His eyes sharpened then, the switch in tone sudden and chilling. “It’s a good thing this isn’t a feast. It’s a sentencing.”
One of the chairs toppled over as the man sitting on it was flung back against the wall. He writhed, unable to move, eyes bulging. Cronan walked over to him slowly. “My dear, dear friend,” he said. “How many centuries have we known each other?” His voice was a quiet hiss. “And this...this is how you repay me?”
He lifted a vial, and the dinner guests gasped. “My attendants found this in your room. They might be emotionless, but they aren’t brainless. Poison? How small-minded.” He smirked. “The sad part is you thought a drop of this would work...”
At that, Cronan uncorked the bottle with his teeth, spit out the cap—and threw his head back as he drank it all. He swallowed. Pressed his lips together. The room seemed to hold its breath.
Nothing happened.
He called the attendant holding the wine over, and Grim could guess what would happen next. “I saved you a drop,” he said, handing her the vial. Wordlessly, and without hesitation, she drank it. The glasshad barely left her lips before the woman seized. The wine bottle slipped out of her grip and shattered on the stone floor. Crimson liquid spilled everywhere, red as blood. She collapsed a moment later.
Cronan turned back toward the man, who clutched at the wall, his eyes wide and terrified, saying, “I’m hard to kill. You should have known that.” He pursed his lips. “But I am not merciless...I’ll give you a chance to live. Ialwaysgive second chances...”
Cronan held out his palm, and from his skin, the Threads of Time Grim had handed over surfaced. With a brush of his finger, dozens of circular portals appeared, stacked vertically, close together, forming a tunnel of doors that rippled like water. They spanned from an inch in front of the man, all the way to the other side of the room, going right through the middle of the dinner table.
“Fifty worlds. I’ve conquered each of them, so you will find my knights there. You will only be able to go to the next world once you’ve killed one of them. If you reach the other side of this room, then I’ll let you live. I’ll pretend this unfortunate event never happened.”
