Page 141 of Skyshade
She folded over and vomited.
She struggled against the restraints in vain.
Time passed differently underground, without the moon or sun to tell her how long it had been. She was slumped forward, having exhausted all her energy.
Damn her for having the bracelets made. She had done this to herself. She had sourced her own imprisonment, down to the metal.
Only Lark could remove them, which meant she would die with the bracelets still on her wrists.
No, that wasn’t true. The only other person who could free her was the blacksmith, Ferrar. And she had plunged a blade through his chest.
All his work had been for nothing. The suit of armor and sword she had left in her bedroom. None of it mattered anymore.
What if I need you? She had asked him.
You’ve always had everything you needed, he had said.
If only that were true.
A day passed, it seemed, before a mindless soldier appeared in the cavern. His skin was leathered and far too cold as he roughly pulled her hair back and forced her to drink water. He shoved food down herthroat, and she bit his hand as hard as she could, but he didn’t even flinch as his fingers came apart in her mouth.
Isla folded over and retched, spitting wildly. And he repeated the process again, with his mangled, bloodless hand.
Another day. Another meal. Another guard, this time. She had been right. Lark might have summoned them from the dead, but they weren’t whole. Lark was weaker here, in this world. Isla wondered, if, in the otherworld, she had been able to perform full resurrections.
What had she promised Cleo? Did the Moonling understand the limits of Lark’s power here?
Isla wondered about Grim and Oro. She hoped they were safe and far away from the Wildling.
She felt around for the bond between them, like she did every few hours, but with the bracelets on, and this far down, she felt nothing.
The thought occurred to her later than it should have. Her necklace. If she could find a way to pull it—perhaps to trick the guard into doing it—Grim could find her. He had found her before.
The next day, Isla tried. She fought with the guard.
She folded herself over, in any attempt to tug at the necklace.
The day after that, she attempted to speak to him, to convince him to help her, but it was like he couldn’t hear her.
Nothing worked.
Isla screamed again, as if her voice could cleave through the rock and alert Grim and Oro to where she was—
But no one came.
A week was a long time spent in silence. Her only company was her thoughts. There were only a few more days left of the storm season. A few more days before the augur said her body would perish. Perhaps Lark would find a way to keep her alive. Perhaps the Wildling planned to turn her into some sort of monster.
Ferrar’s words were like a chant in her mind, an echo through the cavern.
Everything she needed...She began going over his words. Going over her research. Going over the events of her life.
The prophet-followers had been convinced she had been the curse born of life and death. That she would either end the world...or save it.
Sairsha’s group had forced her to end them. They had believed they were giving her a gift. It didn’t make sense—unless they thought by killing them, she would be taking something.
She thought about the thrill of killing Tynan. The surge of every death afterward. The beast within that was being satiated.
As her powers had developed, something dark had formed. It had started with using her blood and pain as power, on Lightlark. Then, on Nightshade, it turned into killing for power. Eventually, the skyres.
