Page 53 of Grim and Oro (Lightlark)

REUNION

Grim Malvere, it seems, is a fool. Or extraordinarily overconfident in his own abilities.

Either way ... he actually came.

I should be relieved to see the Nightshade step onto the cliff. Most of me is. Part of me would be fine not seeing him for the rest of my life, even if he didn’t cast the curses. He—

Another ruler arrives.

Wildling. Her long, ridiculously sheer dress makes that obvious. I sigh, remembering the string of Wildlings I’ve had to deal with over the centuries. All of them with the same plan—to try to seduce me into loving them, so they can have access to my power. Will hers be the same?

Don’t even bother , I want to tell her. I won’t even look at you twice .

It’s not entirely their faults. They don’t know I can see their advances as a lie. Perhaps without my flair, their efforts wouldn’t be so obvious.

As if I have time for something as selfish as love .

As if any of us do.

As if she would be the one to capture my notice anyway.

It may not be fair to the Wildling, but it’s hard not to look at her and immediately think of Violet, the ancestor she never even knew. The day of the curses, I vowed to never fall in love. Love made even my brother into a fool.

Wildling rulers have only led to trouble. As my eyes follow her from my vantage point in one of the castle’s towers, I determine to stay as far away from her as possible.

Her green cape curls in the wind as she takes a step—and nearly falls right off the cliff. My hands press against the window’s glass in shock, careful to stay in the shade a few overhead clouds offer.

Grim’s hand juts out, keeping her steady. Keeping her alive.

I blink. Why save her? I wouldn’t put it beyond him to push her off himself.

Then I remember Ara. Him saving her, without question. Him telling me he was done with death ...

We’ll see how true that statement has remained.

Another ruler arrives. Azul, with his sky-blue cape, and gems I can see all the way from here at the castle. The only ruler I’m truly happy to see , I think, as I break into a faint smile.

Cleo sweeps in next, her white robes puddling around her. Cleo . She wasn’t at the last Centennial. No one knows why. I didn’t expect her to show. Her curse has affected her realm the least of all of us.

The last ruler arrives, the ruler of Starling, and a coil of relief loosens, knowing we have fully completed at least one of the parts of the prophecy, in the most popular interpretation, at least—all of us being joined.

The Centennial has officially started. Again. I straighten. Then, just as I’m about to turn away from the window, a distant flash of movement catches my eye.

The Wildling. She’s sticking her middle finger up at me. I frown.

Yes. I’ll be staying far away from her.

The gods know I try.

I’m getting ready for the banquet that marks the beginning of the Centennial, when I catch a sound I seldom hear—there’s been little room for celebration these last few centuries.

Singing .

No, not singing. It’s more akin to gently tracing a dagger across the sky, the note impossibly high and smooth. Perfect. It sounds ... perfect. For the first time in centuries, I find myself pausing to enjoy something.

Enjoyment . How selfish of me. For an instant, my shoulders melt away from my ears. The stress winding through my bones releases. I close my eyes.

Beautiful.

I can’t remember the last time I thought something was beautiful . It’s so beautiful that I can’t help myself. I need to know the source. I rip the door of my balcony open, and there—

There she is: the Wildling ruler I promised to stay away from.

My jaw clenches. This is a trick. It’s so damned obvious. She is a temptress, planning to seduce me, starting with this song.

Yet—none of her ancestors ever tried this. And how could she know my room was so close to hers?

I reach around for her powers, to feel for what she’s doing ... and I come up empty.

Strange. It’s as if she’s cloaking her abilities. Smart .

I grind my teeth, telling myself I should go back inside. Close the door and forget this sound.

But I don’t. If this is a trick ... it won’t work. So what’s the harm in listening?

I lean against the door of my balcony, and I do more than just listen.

I study. I question. I track every ebb and flow of her voice like tracing a map, as it goes from husky and deep, to high as the stars, every note smooth as the waves below.

They crash against the cliff, rising toward her, as if even the sea is trying to listen. I don’t blame it.

I’m entranced at the skill. At the mastery. At the control. Does she sing a lot? Has she practiced for this one moment?

She stops, and I find myself clapping , like a fool. But some things demand to be praised. So, I clap. She whips around—

And her eyes are wide with surprise. She’s startled. Her arms pinwheel with the speed of the motion, with imbalance. There is no trace of falseness on her expression, which means ...

This wasn’t for me. This wasn’t a trick.

For a moment, our eyes are locked—

And then, she falls off the balcony.

I blink, waiting for her to use her Wildling abilities to summon a vine, or use the rock of the cliff face to climb back.

But then, I hear her scream. Why isn’t she saving herself?

Is it the shock?

Is she unskilled?

The fall is hundreds of feet to the sea. If she doesn’t save herself, she’s going to die.

I should let her die.

It could solve the prophecy. It could make things easy. She already almost fell off another cliff a few hours ago. Perhaps this is her fate. She won’t last long in the Centennial if she can’t stop fucking falling .

She’s still screaming. She’s going to die. Yes, I should let her ...

Then, I remember the singing. I move without thinking, jumping into the air. She’s falling quickly, I’m not going to make it in time—

She hits the water.

Panic flares in me, panic I don’t understand, because I don’t know her. But her voice. It’s in my head.

I plunge in after her. The water is freezing, even to me. Her skin is already cold and prickled as my hands curl around her waist, fingers getting stuck in the gaps of the fabric, wresting her from the sea’s strong currents. Her limbs are limp.

I lift us both out of the water, sodden and dripping, then soar to her balcony, where I lay her gently on the stone terrace. I sink to my knees, resting her head in my lap, registering all the blood gushing out of it. She’s hurt.

I can still let her die.

No. I can’t. For some reason ... I just can’t. I absorb some of the water covering us, swirl it in my palm, and gently place it against her head. My thumb, inexplicably, swipes down her temple.

It doesn’t take long for the wound to heal, and for the bleeding to stop.

I should leave—but I stay, watching as her skin slowly regains its glow.

As her cheeks flush a gentle pink, like the petal of a flower.

It’s enough to assure me she’ll be okay .

.. but I can’t stop staring. Studying .

I study the way her lashes fan out against her cheeks, I study the perfect cupid’s bow arch of her slightly parted lips, I study her dark hair, long and fanned out across my lap, I make a map of her in my mind.

Her face, I admit, is just as striking as her voice.

I shouldn’t have saved her. I shouldn’t have interfered, this early in the Centennial ... but I couldn’t stop myself.

“This world has extinguished too many beautiful things,” I say, watching the color fully return to her face. “I didn’t want you to be one of them.”

I leave before she wakes.

She’s soaking wet when she arrives at the banquet.

Gods above, why is she still soaking wet ?

Worse, the sound of her voice is still in my fucking head .

Maybe that’s why I’m so rude to her when she sits down.

Cleo joins in, baiting her. And, for some reason, the barbed words provoke a flare of defensiveness within me.

I take a long sip of water, pushing it down.

I saved her from death so the games could continue. That’s all.

Really.

I had a surprise prepared for her: a human heart. A magnanimous gesture on my part. I tamp down my wave of revulsion, as the server places it before her, blood oozing across gilded porcelain. It’s practically still beating. That’s what she wants, right? That’s what Wildlings crave?

I lean back, hoping to see those red lips finally turn into a smile, but the expression that passes across her features is curious.

Is that—was it—disgust? I blink and it’s gone, too fleeting for me to be sure I saw correctly.

It never occurred to me that Wildlings dislike this part of their curse, that they haven’t adapted to it over time.

Azul tries to speak to me, but my focus is entirely on the Wildling, and the way she begins to cut the heart on her plate. The way she spears a piece of it with her fork, before bringing it to her lips.

I don’t realize I’m staring until Grim jumps up and demands for the heart to be removed.

He claims it’s making the rest of the table uncomfortable.

Interesting. I lift my brows. If I remember correctly, Grimshaw has given a shit about the well-being of another ruler exactly zero times before now—yet he has found it in himself to command my people to take the heart to the Wildling’s room.

I allow it only because a quick glance at Azul sees that Grim might be right. He looks like he has completely lost his appetite, though he would never admit it.

I turn my attention back to the insolent Nightshade. Just a few hours back inside this castle and he’s already testing my tie to the Centennial rule that states we aren’t supposed to kill each other before the first fifty days are over.

It’s supposed to encourage working together to try to break the curses. It’s supposed to avoid all this becoming a bloodbath all too soon.

For the first time, I start to detest the rules.