Lightlark (The Lightlark Saga Book 1)

On the fifth day of the Centennial, the invitation to the first demonstration arrived. The paper was charred, black, burned. Only a few words were visible, carved into the page with a knife.

Be ready to duel.

Isla couldn’t help but smile. Grim had helped her.

But why?

The time of the event was scrawled at the bottom—in one hour. Instead of having to scramble for a weapon, Isla had already purchased the ideal sword. One that was light enough for her to wield almost weightlessly, but sharp and firm enough to strike true. It had taken hours to choose the right one in the Starling weapons shop. The realm’s metalwork really was unparalleled . . . though she longed for the familiar feel of one of her own blades from home.

The tailor’s wardrobe had arrived the day before. The man worked at a remarkable speed. His commitment to his craft only made Isla feel worse about stealing from him.

By finding the bondbreaker, I’m saving him and his realm, Isla convinced herself to counteract the guilt.

One gown was the dark blue of sapphires, with crystal-shaped shards cut out of its sides. One was the purple of fresh lavender with an eye-rollingly low-cut bodice and skintight pants, finished with a glittering cape that tied around her waist, creating the illusion of a skirt. One, the green of emeralds, was tight and light and sheer enough to make her blush. Another, she discovered, had pockets.

For this demonstration, she wore the armor. Ella helped tie the many pieces together, grunting as she lifted the metal.

To Isla, it was a second skin. Terra had made sure of that.

How many times had she been left abandoned in the middle of the woods, or in the center of a rain forest storm, with fifty pounds of chain mail and armor on her? Getting back took more than a day. Without water, without food, with the howls of wolves and patter of panthers at her heels.

The last half mile was always done on her stomach as she dragged herself back to her room, nails digging into roots and dirt for purchase.

In comparison, the smartly made Starling fabric and thin sheets of iron were nearly weightless. They had been fashioned into parts that accentuated her figure while also protecting it—metal shoulder pads, chain mail sleeves and tights, metal-plated boots that ran up to the top of her thigh, a sculpted breastplate.

“Done,” Ella said, slumping over after the last of Isla’s outfit was assembled.

“Thank you,” Isla said before taking a bite of the vegetable skewer and grains Ella had brought her for lunch. In exchange for the healing elixir, the Starling girl brought Isla regular meals, believing them to be indulgences, in addition to the hearts she planned to secretly throw off her balcony. “For everything.”

Ella bowed her head and gently tapped at her leg. She walked almost evenly now, and her brow wasn’t set in its constant tension at the pain. “Thank you,” she said.

The duel took place at an arena in the farthest reach of the castle, one that used to be open but had been covered with a dome after the curses. It made the crowd’s cheers echo and braid together, forming a single taunting voice from a thousand mouths. Rulers controlled many variables about their trials—what it would test, where it would take place, if there would be any advance notice, and who was allowed to witness it. Grim had invited all islanders. They sat separated by realm, filling every seat, rows lined by dozens of lit torches. Starling in their glittering silver. Skyling in their bright blue. Moonling in their immaculate white. Sunling in their polished gold.

Demonstrations were a spectacle. She knew that. Meant to test different skills. Meant to manipulate favor. Meant to decide who deserved to die.

Or, at the very least, who would determine the teams they would break into, which would, in some way or another, change the course of the Centennial by forcing alliances.

Each trial was also a risk. Though killing was not permitted until after the fiftieth day, Isla’s own ancestor had lost one of her hands during a demonstration. It had weakened her ability to wield power significantly, and she was forced to have a child after the Centennial ended, as a better representative for the next one.

Grim’s voice rumbled through the applause, silencing the room.

“Welcome to my demonstration,” he said, somewhere. She couldn’t place him—it was as if his voice was coming from everywhere at once. “You are all very menacing with your endless powers . . . but how will you fare without them?”

He announced the first pair—Oro against Azul.

The king’s sword was made of solid gold to match his priceless armor. Isla wondered if the duel would end up embarrassing the king in front of his people, and the thought nearly made her smile. She had never heard anything of the king’s fighting abilities in her years of lessons, which might mean he relied heavily on his fire instead.

Azul’s own weapon was covered in precious jewels, sapphires mixed with diamonds. He didn’t wear armor at all; much of his chest was exposed. But he did wear the ring she had gifted him. Was he so good he didn’t require protection?

Both of Isla’s assessments were wrong.

The duel finished within seconds. The king struck so quickly, she almost missed it. One moment, the tip of his sword was dug into the gravel of the arena—the next, it was at the Skyling’s throat.

Azul only smiled graciously and bowed, admitting defeat.

Sunlings were on their feet, roaring in approval, waving long lengths of golden fabric above their heads.

Celeste and Cleo were next.

Isla’s manicured nails dug into her palm, watching her friend enter the arena. The Moonling wore a serpentine grin. She didn’t wear armor either, but she had opted for pants. Her weapon was long and thin like an ice pick.

Celeste held her sword steadily. Isla had chosen a lighter one for her friend, one that would be easy to maneuver by someone who didn’t have extensive training. Her silver hair was plaited, stuck firmly to her scalp.

At the bell, Cleo lunged—

“Nervous, Hearteater?”

Grim’s voice was at her ear. She didn’t dare take her eyes off the action. Cleo had missed Celeste’s arm by inches, and her friend had just unsuccessfully struck back.

“Don’t call me that,” she said quietly, wincing as Celeste nearly tripped right into Cleo’s blade.

It was like she could hear the grin in Grim’s words as he said, “Is that the thanks I get for my help?”

She spared him a quick withering look, retort on her tongue, and—

Froze. Grim was a fearsome warrior. He wore a helmet of spikes like daggers that shot from the crown of his skull. One dipped between his eyes, shielding his nose. His shoulders had the same sharp metal points that ran down the lengths of his arms, spikes everywhere.

He was a demon, death itself.

She swallowed. He watched the movement, staring at her neck far too intently, before almost absentmindedly baring his teeth, like he wanted to bite her there. Her skin inexplicably prickled at the thought.

No, that’s disgusting. Isla forced herself to get it together. He didn’t want to bite her. That was just in her head.

Why was that in her head?

The ringing of a bell tore her attention away, back to the arena.

Celeste’s sword was on the ground. Cleo’s blade was tapping recklessly against the Starling’s heart. Then, it too dropped to the floor.

Relief washed over her. Celeste had lost, but that didn’t matter. They both planned to perform adequately. Not badly enough to be marked as weak, but not strong enough to be chosen as a partner. While they couldn’t control the pairings that would be decided on the twenty-fifth day unless they won the most trials—which would instantly identify them as competition to be potentially eliminated—they were relying on the fact that whoever did win would pair the youngest, most inexperienced rulers together. It would be the smartest choice, they reasoned, tying the weakest links together as easy prey for the rest of the matches.

Don’t draw too much attention to yourself, Celeste had warned.

“Our turn, Hearteater,” Grim said before strolling past her into the ring.

Oh.

Somehow, Isla hadn’t put together that they would be dueling. She had been too distracted by Celeste’s battle.

She didn’t move a muscle, watching the center of the arena as Grim reached behind him for a broadsword thicker than her thigh.

Her throat was suddenly too dry. Grim chose the matches. This was his demonstration. He must have paired them together for a reason.

A theory formed in her head, pieces coming together. They were the only two rulers without their people present. The two most hated. Did he purposefully match them to show his superiority over her? To make sure, from the very first demonstration, that the island rooted for him over her?

Celeste was right. She couldn’t trust him.

“Go,” her friend whispered sharply, suddenly at her side.

Right. Isla stepped into the exposed center on legs that weren’t as steady as they had been a few minutes before.

Not one person cheered. When Isla’s sword knocked into the metal plating her long boots, feeling uncharacteristically off-kilter, the sound was projected through the silence.

Get yourself together, she told herself, thinking of her training. Of Terra.

The Nightshade might be plotting against her. All she could do was ensure his plan was foiled before it even began.

With a steadying breath, Isla drew her weapon and took her stance. It was second nature, like tumbling into sleep or taking a breath. The only time she ever felt like she had a whisper of power. Part of her still wanted to cower. But Isla knew how to handle a blade better than a quill.

The bell rang out, loud and clear.

Grim struck first.

Isla twirled to the side, fast as the wind. His blade met air. She pivoted on her heel and aimed for his chest.

Grim was too quick. He dodged the blow, then struck again, only for his blade to meet hers. Her arm shook for a moment from the sheer strength of it. Quickly, she regained her balance and slid her sword right down his, the metal against metal making her wince, slicing through the room.

His eyes widened in surprise as he shot backward, barely missing the tip of her blade.

See? Maybe you should have chosen a different opponent, she thought.

“You’re feeling confident, Hearteater,” Grim purred. He advanced, and she blocked his blow. Tried again, only to meet steel. For a few stumbling, dizzying seconds, their blades met over and over and over, touching, skimming, clashing. Somehow, he was at her ear. “Tell me, how will you feel when you lose?”

She swallowed and whipped around—then ducked, air shooting out of her nostrils as he went for her neck. And barely missed. Too close.

She shot up and forward, one arm completely outstretched, the other tight behind her back. She was light as a dandelion on her feet but strong as the steel of her blade with every advance. It was a part of her, a fifth limb, a beautiful, gleaming thing. Each of her motions was faster than the last as she slipped into her rhythm, her flow. Her dance. She felt the room like she was barefoot, the air like it was electric. A growl sounded from the back of her throat as she pushed Grim farther down the arena, toward its wall, at the crowd sitting high above.

His mouth was a line as he focused; she could have sworn a bead of sweat shot down his temple.

“You’re feeling surprised, Grim,” she said, her voice deep and raspy.

His eyes were fierce, no gleam in them anymore.

Isla grinned, spun fast as a maelstrom to gather more strength, and struck like a cobra—so hard that Grim stumbled, just the slightest bit.

It was all she needed. She leaped off the floor with a warrior’s cry and landed right in front of him, pinning him to the wall.

Her blade was at his throat.

His clattered to the ground.

She was panting, right in his face. He was looking at her like he hadn’t ever seen her before.

“Everyone seems to forget,” she said, not breaking his gaze, even though it meant tilting her head. They were both panting, their chests flush with every breath. “That Wildlings are, above all, warriors.” Isla might not have had powers. And she might have been trapped like a bird in a cage her entire life because of it. But she could fight as well as any ruler—Terra had made sure of that. She dropped the blade from his throat.

And there was clapping.

Isla whipped around, stunned by the sound, the only cheer in the room of hundreds.

The king. He was clapping for her.

Again.

She turned back to the Nightshade ruler, expecting him to hate her. But he was grinning, his eyes filled with something like delight.

He was thrilled that she had beaten him.

Which made no sense.

Her eyes narrowed at him, trying to read him. Never had anyone’s motivations been more of a mystery.

What did Grim want?

What game was he playing?

Spurred by their king, a few claps sounded in the crowd, then spread like wildfire until everyone was cheering, celebrating her victory, the lesser of two evils overcoming the other.

Still confused, Isla made her way to the sidelines, only to find a concerned Celeste. Her friend couldn’t say anything, not in front of the other rulers, but Isla knew she had made herself stand out too much. Her job was to skate by, mostly unnoticed, so they could hopefully be paired together.

The islanders and rulers were certainly noticing her now.

Cleo and Oro dueled next, as winners of their pairs. The Moonling put on an impressive display. In less than a minute, the king succeeded, however. But not before Cleo was able to tear a line down his arm. The skin flayed open. Blood stained the arena, sizzling. He did not make a move to heal himself before moving on to the next duel.

Part of Isla wondered how the Moonling dared wound the king. Nervous energy seemed to swirl through the arena, some of the islanders perhaps thinking the same thing.

Oro did not even bother leaving the ring. He stood, blade dug into the ground before him, hands resting on its hilt. Still bleeding. Staring at her. His final opponent.

His eyes were hollow. Emotionless.

She did not shy away from his lifeless gaze as she stepped back into the arena. This time, there was no applause for her. The crowd’s loyalty had shifted as quickly and predictably as the tide.

A bell, somewhere.

Then a sword, slicing the air before her to pieces. She managed to get her own up in time, just barely, but the strength of the king’s first blow echoed through her bones. She felt the force of it in her teeth.

A groan escaped her lips as she deepened her stance, digging in, absorbing the impact, shielding against his advance.

He kept pushing, and her back foot slid, compromising her posture. He was forcing her to make a move, to make herself vulnerable.

Did he think she was a fool?

She added a second hand along the hilt of her blade, then shoved back as hard as she could.

He did what she expected, pressing back in equal measure—

And she spun at the last moment, leaving him stumbling forward.

Isla was quicker on her feet, she knew that. It was her advantage.

But Oro was stronger. Even while wounded.

The king’s sword found hers before she could truly recover, and Isla fought to keep up, mostly on the defense, blocking blow after blow after deafening blow. He knew his strength. His strategy was to tire her, to use up her energy on taking his hits instead of making her own. Until her arms gave out.

She almost smiled.

He didn’t know that when Isla was twelve, Terra had left her hanging onto the branch of a tree, fifty feet above the ground, for five hours.

Fall, and you’ll break your legs, she’d said. They’ll heal, but you won’t be allowed to go on the tour of the newland if you’re injured.

She had been looking forward to her first tour of her lands for years.

The first hour wasn’t so bad. She had been training for a while at that point. Her arms were strong.

By the third hour, she was screaming.

By the fourth, her voice gave out.

By the fifth, one of her shoulders had popped out of its socket.

She never let go.

But she wasn’t allowed to go on the tour. A punishment for the screaming.

You take the pain like medicine, Terra had said in response to her tears. You swallow it down with a smile.

Then she popped Isla’s shoulder back into place without medication. Another lesson.

The king would not be the one to wear her down.

Still—it was to her benefit for him to think he would. She slowed her movements slightly, bent her wrist just a degree. Angled her sword the way someone trying to shift its weight might.

He advanced faster in response, sensing her weakening.

She took a step back. Another, this time with a slight stumble.

He made his final, bold move.

And Isla unleashed the strength she had stored.

The king was caught off guard by the force of her blow. His blade shook with the impact. She advanced, seizing her chance, aiming everywhere. He was now forced to retreat, deflecting her hits, his brows coming together in focus.

She was going to win.

Her blade became a serpent, the one on her crown come to life, striking for the kill, fangs and all. Again, again, again, she pounced, nearly reaching his heart. Almost grazing his neck.

She leaped forward, ready for the final blow—

And hesitated.

Celeste was a silver reminder in the wings, right behind the king. She wasn’t supposed to win the trial. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Don’t you want to be free? a voice in her head said. That was more important than her pride. Than winning. Than anything.

At the last moment, Isla aimed lower, to a place Oro would easily be able to deflect. When he did, she loosened her grip on her hilt.

So, when his sword struck, her own went flying across the stadium.

Cheers erupted, not only Sunlings, but every Lightlark realm getting to their feet. Honoring their king.

But he only watched Isla, eyes narrowing.

He knew.

Somehow, he knew she had let him win.

The tip of his sword eventually, half-heartedly, slid up her stomach, to her heart. Then away. But the king’s gaze was relentless, studying her far too closely.

Isla shrank under it, folding herself over, bowing, recognizing defeat.

She retreated to the wings as Oro was crowned the winner of the demonstration.

Her eyes didn’t meet his again. But she could feel his gaze on her, not lifeless any longer—but merciless as flames.