Isla was still thinking about Oro’s words during dinner when she heard her name spoken.
Her head was yanked upward by an invisible force. Cronan was looking at her expectedly. So was Grim.
“Yes?” she asked, playing her part.
“I said...I think it’s time you show the other lords why you’ll be so valuable when you join us.”
Isla forcefully swallowed her last bite of food. A charred purple vegetable with a honey-like glaze that she admittedly looked forward to every evening.
One of the other lords—a particularly pompous man who always chewed with his mouth open—said, “A duel? Finally?”
Cronan smiled. “Patience, Alaric. She’ll get her duel...if she decides not to join me,” he said. Panic slid down her spine.
And his hold on her powers was released.
Isla lurched forward, as her blood rushed through her. The clouds in her mind cleared. It was easier to move. The poison was gone. She could finally take a full breath.
This was a test. The last time she had access to her powers in his presence, she had escaped. This time...
She sat still. Even as she felt Grim’s eyes boring into the side of her face.
She wouldn’t leave without her husband.
“Well, then,” Cronan drawled encouragingly. “Why don’t you show them?”
She didn’t budge.
His head tilted. “No? Maybe you just need some encouragement.” He looked around the table. “If anyone can take her down, I’ll gift you the planet of your choice in the new galaxy we conquer. Second pick, right after me.”
At once, every lord ignited with otherworldly power. They turned toward her, eyes hungry, like they had waited several days for the moment to finally hurt her. They lunged.
Isla curled her hands into fists.
And every single one of them was slammed against the wall. One was pinned by a wall of flames. Another by shadow. Another by streams of energy. Another by whorls of wind. Another by all the wine at the table. Another by a jagged piece of the table itself.
The only ones left in their chairs were Grim, Cronan, and Isla.
Her husband was gazing intently at her sides. That was when she realized her shadow had peeled off the floor and multiplied, each one holding shadowblades and standing in echoes behind her. Stolen powers. Sairsha’s. Multiplication from one of the other prophet-followers, likely.
Cronan clapped. His vise gripped her bones once more, and all of her powers fell away. She felt empty without them.
The men were released from Isla’s abilities, relatively unscathed—except for their pride. They looked at each other, eyes sharpened, but they brushed themselves off and followed their liege’s lead, giving Isla a round of applause. She just glared at them in return.
“Now you see,” Cronan said, “what a powerful addition she’ll make.”
When Grim escorted her to the cell, they hadn’t even reached the dungeons before he said, “Why didn’t you flee?”
She snorted. “He would have sent you after me again.”
“A storm was summoned by your power. You could have used it.”
He was right. She could have. She glanced at him. “I’m not leaving without you.”
He scowled. “Then I guess you’re not leaving.”
“Maybe not,” she said, her words just a whisper. The door to the dungeon screamed as it opened.
“Why don’t you just give up?” he asked, stopping in that darkened hall. There was barely any light, but she could sense the confusion and anger written into each of his features. “Why didn’t you leave?” he demanded again.
