But he needed her to keep fighting—for all of them on Lightlark. And for herself.
“Then I guess you’ll have to convince her some other way,” he said. It was a challenge. He waited, hoping it was enough to reignite the fire within her that had always been like that forever flame on Sun Isle. It never went out. Ever. Even when all chances and circumstances seemed stacked against her.
If it went out now...their world was well and truly doomed.
Isla parted her lips as if to make another excuse. But slowly, she lifted her chin. Her spine straightened. “I will,” she said, her voice steady.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.”
ISLA
Isla was summoned to Cronan’s galaxy room by his knights in the morning, just as she always had been before Grim arrived.
She assumed Cronan wanted to resume their torture sessions and that maybe he was suspicious of her motives for killing Jessel, but when she walked inside, she was surprised to find a small table set up in the middle. It was a fraction of the size of the one the council used for dinner and made of ancient, intricately designed wood.
If only she could access her abilities, she could sense its properties.
And twist it into a pike that could skewer Cronan through the heart.
Cronan stood and motioned toward the open seat across from him. One of his guards unceremoniously shoved her into it before the knights left and doors closed.
In the silence that followed, Isla waited for Cronan to speak, to explain why he’d brought her here. But then a flurry of attendants swept in, heralding tea. She watched it be poured and couldn’t help but think of Oro and his demonstration during the Centennial. And all the tea they’d had together in the months afterward.
She couldn’t fail him—she’d get the answers she needed out of Lark by any means necessary.
The tea was poured and they were finally alone. “Are you ready to join me?” he asked. Straight to the point. “Your display last night was quite surprising. Has my descendant been able to convince you to hand yourself over?”
“No.” Isla’s eyes never left his. She needed more time. She only had ten days left before the invasion.
Irritation flashed in his expression—but he didn’t look completely surprised. “I suspected enough. Grimshaw is powerful, but he lacks vision.” He eyed her. “You, on the other hand...play the long game. You didn’t respond well to our previous sessions...”—Where you tortured me, Isla thought, hand clenched around the curve of the table—“I thought we could have a conversation in a more...civilized manner,” he said, good-naturedly, as if he was not the one who had forced her to the floor and cracked her mind open like it was a stubborn walnut.
She was silent. He motioned toward the tea, and she just stared at it.
“It’s just tea,” he said. “Not drugged, I assure you. Why would I bother? I could force you to do anything I wish, already...including, telling me the truth.”
She swallowed at his threat. She would much rather drink potentially poisoned tea than have his shadows digging around in her mind.
She took a sip and was met with a pleasant, calming flavor of an unrecognizable flower. It reminded her that even though this world was a shadow of its former glory, some beauty had survived. It had endured.
The glass clinked against its plate as she set the cup back down.
“Now, then,” Cronan said. “I’m going to ask you questions. And I’m going to hope I don’t have to force myself into your head to get answers.” She sat back in her chair, waiting for the first question. “Why did you kill that woman after she helped you?”
She took a sip of her tea. She told him exactly what she thought he wanted to hear. And the truth. “To absorb her power.”
She was going to die anyway. What Isla didn’t tell him was that she still hoped she could kill Lark and bring everyone back. Including Jessel.
At least, by dying by her hand, there was hope.
Cronan tented his fingers in front of his chin, pondering her. “You see...we aren’t so different, you and I. We both take power. It makes us stronger.”
His head tilted at her. “But you are halved. Wildling...and Nightshade. Life...and death. Killer...and creator.” He pursed his lips. “I see the war within you. You’ve felt divided for a while now, haven’t you? Between who you really are, and the person everyone else wants you to be?”
“Yes,” she answered honestly. And with that, there was a slight bite in her brain, a pinprick, and she watched as a memory poured from her mind into the room. Cronan had plucked it out of her head with a razor-thin shadow. So much for not using his methods.
The memory danced around them. Isla saw herself, covered in snakes. Her eyes gleamed as she strutted through Grim’s throne room, the severed head of the Nightshade who had tried to assassinate her held in her fist by the hair.
Cronan hummed, and it reverberated through the room. “Queen of darkness,” he said. “That’s who you are. Anything else is just a mask. An ill-fitting veil over the truth.”
