Page 12 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

KILLING ME

Working with the hearteater has proven more infuriating than I imagined.

Why does the fate of my realm have to rely on someone so ... killable?

We’re just one hour into our first stop, and she has nearly been gutted by a rockface and killed by the blacksmith.

She’s fragile. She’s ridiculous, and sensitive, and she talks too much for my liking.

But easily captured? No.

She managed to put a dagger through the ancient blacksmith’s eye, after he chased her through the forest. It was my own little test, to see how she might perform. If she would be more of a hindrance than an advantage in searching for the sword.

That’s not the only reason we’re here. The blacksmith can make enchanted objects from blood. He met her father—he can sense hers, and just confirmed she can break the curse on the sword.

Part of me is grateful.

Part of me had hoped I had been wrong ... that she couldn’t unlock the sword. That way, I could forget her. I could spare her.

It’s settled now.

The moment we leave the blacksmith, she is, predictably, screaming at me. Her anger flares when I roll my eyes at her outrage. It’s not that I don’t care. It’s that she was never in any danger. I was there the entire time. I would never let him hurt her.

I’m the most dangerous thing she’ll ever face.

“Why? Why let him hunt me?” she demands. I feel her twisting hurt. She feels ... betrayed. That makes me scowl. To feel betrayed means there was some sort of trust.

We portal back to her room. Now that we’re away from the blacksmith, it begins to sink in: I’m planning to kill her, and she trusts me .

The fool.

Perhaps her anger is warranted. My little curiosity injured her. She twisted her ankle running from the blacksmith.

We’ll have to take a small break from searching for the sword to give her time to heal.

I leave. The next night, I have half a mind to continue the search for the sword without her. But, when I’m done stopping yet another rip in the scar, when I am bone-meltingly exhausted, drained, and sore, I do not follow up on my leads.

No. I go to her room. And that’s how I hear the yelling, in another wing of the castle.

Her guardians.

“Foolish girl,” one says. “Do you think we keep you inside just because we want to? No . Because you put us all in danger when you’re reckless. Is that what you want? For everyone in this realm to die?”

My knuckles are white, gripping the side of this chair, listening to that guardian scream at her.

Remembering. Remembering my own guardians ...

I hear her voice through the walls. It’s trembling. I reach for her emotions, closing my eyes in focus, and they practically scald me.

She feels ... guilt. Sadness. Shame.

“I’m sorry,” she says. That makes my nostrils flare. I’m not even sure why, but the idea of her apologizing to that woman. The idea of that woman daring to —

“Sorry isn’t good enough!” her guardian screams. “You are just like your mother. And it ... and it is going to get you killed. It is going to get us all killed.”

Shock and hurt reaches me ...

I’m on my feet in a moment. I’m melting through walls, portaling, until I see them.

The two guardians, standing side by side. Only one of them speaking. Isla, in front of them, head bowed. Tears glistening on her cheeks.

I have to physically stop myself from turning the woman pointing her finger at Isla to ash. Anger and outrage surge through me, telling me to do it.

I almost do.

But then, Isla turns to go. She almost walks right through me. She winces as she steps, her ankle clearly still in pain, and my invisible shadows lurch forward, on instinct.

They wrap beneath her arms, gently enough for her not to feel them. Still, a small pinch forms between her brows, as she notices the lessening of pain.

Her sadness overcomes any suspicion. I feel it, I see it in her face, as she slowly walks back to her room.

The guardian who was speaking follows. I portal, beating them there, and watch, hands clenched, as the woman seals the loose windowpane in the glass wall. The one Isla snuck through before. She must have told her about it, to explain her injury.

The hearteater just watches, fingers trembling by her sides. Her anger and hurt engulf me, but she remains silent.

Speak , I want to tell her, as I simmer in the shadows.

Defend yourself .

But she doesn’t. And, when her guardian finally leaves, she slips down the painted glass to the floor—and cries.

I should be disgusted by her weakness. Rulers do not cry . I haven’t in centuries.

Instead ... my chest tightens. I feel ... angry? But not at her ... at the one who made her cry.

If her guardian were to die unexpectedly, would it be suspicious? I hardly care.

I stay until she finally falls asleep, curled against the floor, tears dried upon her cheeks.

I don’t know what I am doing. But carefully, so carefully it doesn’t wake her—I take her into my arms. I walk her to her bed. I gently place her atop the sheets, then cover her with blankets.

It’s cold, I tell myself. I don’t want her to die from the elements. She is weak. I don’t want her injury getting worse.

But that doesn’t explain why I remain through the night, sitting on a chair I dragged by her bedside.

Something about her has captured my interest. Perhaps it’s her powerlessness. Perhaps it’s her lineage—both Wildling and Nightshade.

Whatever it is, it needs to stop. Every day, I say that, but I keep showing up here, thinking tonight will be the night that I lose my interest, that I am able to give her up entirely, but like any addict, the claws of my obsession are just deepening.

She’s just ... a woman. Closer inspection would determine that she is the most beautiful woman imaginable, but beauty means little.

Beauty is not enough for her to have snagged my mind.

So, what is it?

What has she done to me?

“Do you have any idea?” I say, softly, from my shadows. She doesn’t even stir. “Do you have any idea how many ways I could kill you right now?”

I shake my head.

“Do you have any idea how many ways you’re killing me ?”

I shouldn’t be watching her sleep.

I stay until the sun rises.