Page 53 of Lightlark
Nothing.
That was the problem with climbing an unfamiliar rock face. There were no guarantees. Still, there was alwayssomething.Some way to get up.
Her fingers were starting to get sweaty. The grip on the point of rock less secure. She felt both freezing and too warm. Did she have a fever? Was she sick?
No. Just weak. Her arm’s skin was still slightly raw. The cold in her chest had intensified.
She needed to find placement for her other hand quickly.
Higher.
Despite her efforts to be silent, Isla grumbled with strain as she forced her arm to lift her evenhigher—
Only then did she find a slight hollow in the rock. She didn’t waste a moment before shoving her fingers painfully into the pit, distributing her weight again.
That was close.
The window was just a few feet above. It was large enough for her to fit through, with a ledge, even, for support.
Isla made her next move. And just as her hand was about to lock on to another hold, the knob holding all her weight gave way.
She fell.
This high up, she might break her legs. Or, depending on how she landed, could crack her ribs. Or her spine.
In any case, she would be discovered. Found in a broken heap right outside the castle walls.
No bondbreaker.
No future that she wanted more than anything, a future that was changing every day the more she saw and experienced.
No.
So fast it was muscle memory, Isla unclipped the back of her necklace—a dagger made to look like a choker, sharp point instead of a clasp—and dug its hidden blade into the rock with all her strength.
She stopped falling.
Barely.
A moment later, the blade gave out.
By then, she had new hand placements.
She was twenty feet down from the window now. But she was alive. Whole.
Her stomach felt like it had been turned inside out, her heart drummed against the cliff.
No time to celebrate.Sweat licking the back of her neck despite the cold, Isla traveled the rest of the way up to the window. Roaring still filled her ears, from the sea, or the adrenaline, or her body warning that she wasn’t ready to exert so much effort—she wasn’t sure.
Minutes later, she hauled herself up the ledge, lifted the mercifully unlocked window, and dragged herself through.
The Moon Isle castle was quiet.
Every inch had been sculpted from white marble, dark-blue veins weaving through it like rivers. It reminded Isla of Cleo.
Spotless. Ageless.
Something about it was unsettling.
