Skyshade (The Lightlark Saga Book 3) (The Lightlark Saga, 3) (Volume 3)
Skyshade: FORGE

Before she worked with Grim to stop the storms, she needed to do something for herself.

Burying her feelings hadn’t worked, not really. She couldn’t trust herself to keep them in check, and she now knew the ruin they could cause when mixed with her abilities.

She needed to ensure she would never kill another innocent again. She needed to keep her powers contained.

Only one person knew how to create such an enchantment, and the last time she’d seen him, she’d stabbed a knife through his eye.

“Here to take the other one?” the blacksmith said. He was sitting in his forge, back turned to her as he polished something on his worktable. Even seated, he was more than a head taller than her.

She remembered how that towering man had hunted her through his forest like prey, sensing her blood. He had craved its ability, to hammer into his weapons. Back then, she had thought herself powerless. She hadn’t understood why he had been so desperate for her blood, but she did now.

It was risky traveling here without telling Grim. The blacksmith had more than a few reasons to want to hurt her.

“If you’re wondering if I’m going to drain you of your enchanting blood, do allow me to put that fear to rest,” he said, without turning. “You happen to be the last person in this world that I would kill.”

She frowned, partially insulted. “Why?”

“You’re better use to me alive.”

That made her pause. “And just what do you plan to use me for?”

He didn’t answer. He just continued his polishing.

She ran her tongue across her teeth. Best to jump right into it.

“I need a way to restrain my power. Keep it under control. Can you make something like that?”

Once, she had dreamed of having ability. Now that she had access to more power than anyone in all the realms, she would do anything to have it taken away. It had made her into a weapon that no one—including herself—could control.

Her mind flashed the images. Ash. Shadows of bodies. Death—

His chair creaked wildly beneath his weight. “I could with the proper metal. It is rare, however. Coveted. I’ll have to melt other creations down to make it.” He studied her for a moment. Two. His gaze slipped to her necklace, and his eyes gleamed with interest. She wondered if it was his own making. “My help comes at a cost.”

She was happy to pay. Anything to smother the power like fire in her veins, anything to ease the fear that any turn of emotion would lead to more death. “Fine. How much?”

“Not coin. I want something only you can give me.”

Isla remembered what he had said, about how she was only valuable to him alive. Was it because he needed fresh blood? Her hand inched toward the dagger sheathed against her leg. He was the tallest man she had ever seen. She had the thought that he could crush her skull in his hands without much effort. She wondered if now was a good time to run. “What do you want?”

The blacksmith stared her down, single eye filled with fire. “I want you to kill me.”

Isla blinked at him. “I—I’m not sure I understand.”

“You understand perfectly.”

His request didn’t make sense. “Why me?” He could have found death numerous ways over the centuries, if that was what he wanted.

That was when she remembered what the blacksmith had told her right after she had put her dagger through his eye. “You weren’t supposed to be able to do that.”

“A ruler far before Grimshaw cursed me to never be able to die, so that they would never be rid of my abilities.” He motioned at his forge. “No one else in this world can create what I can. They knew that.”

“My flair circumvents that.”

“Your father’s flair,” he corrected. It was rare for non-rulers to be born with flairs, but her father had been powerful, and immune to curses.

He would have known her father. She had a sharp need to drain him for details, to ask for any crumbs of her father he might give her, but the blacksmith didn’t seem intent on indulging her for long, and she had more pressing matters. Like the blacksmith asking her to end his life.

Isla didn’t want anyone else to die by her hand. That was the entire point of using the metal in the first place.

He seemed to sense her indecision. “Allow me the mercy of rest,” he said. Isla wondered at the idea of living forever. Never having the peace of death.

“You’re sure?”

He nodded.

“Fine. I’ll give you until the end of winter to change your mind. If you still want this . . . I’ll do it.”

The blacksmith’s mountainous form seemed to shrink a bit in relief. Then, he turned toward his forge.

She watched him take down two daggers from his wall of creations. They looked ancient, their hilts covered in symbols she didn’t understand. And their blades . . . they shined brightly, more than they should have in their condition. Next to the fire, in the bright light . . . the metal almost glimmered. He didn’t waste a moment before melting them down. Flames erupted from a device, filling the forge with heat.

Watching the blacksmith cast was mesmerizing. He worked expertly, diligently. Under his process, the strange metal changed color, before melting completely. It glittered brightly in its new form, like a bowl of stars. He didn’t use a mold. Somehow, he was able to pour the liquid metal into his hands, without burning them. Somehow, he was able to shape it himself. This was his power.

She suddenly regretted making a deal to kill him in a few months.

The metal began to harden beneath his fingers. Before it was set, he motioned for her to outstretch her hands. She did, wondering if she would be burned by the blistering material, but under his control, they did not touch her skin as he closed them around her wrists. With a sweeping of his fingers, the metal cooled completely.

Then, it was done.

“What is this metal?” she asked. It glimmered brightly under the light, like a thousand diamonds were trapped within.

“It’s shademade,” he said. “Made from ancient power.”

“They won’t break?”

He shook his head. “It is designed so that only the person who puts them on can release them. And me. My enchantments always have safeguards.”

Good. She wouldn’t be asking him to release them anytime soon, however. The moment the bracelets had closed around her wrists, her shoulders sagged with relief. Her eyes stung with unshed tears.

It was so . . . quiet. She had almost forgotten what her mind had been like, without having to constantly block out the endless connections waiting to be formed around her. It had worked.

Her power was gone.

Grim insisted on having dinner with her before they began working together. She rushed into the room several minutes late, only to replace him sitting perfectly still at the end of the table, looking content to wait forever, if needed.

As soon as she entered, he stood, his eyes widening slightly, as if she was something to marvel at. He took in her dress—long and embedded with thousands of black beads. It had been waiting in her wardrobe. It seemed he had made good on his promise to hire a tailor for her, after he had ripped so many of her dresses apart. She wore it because it was expected. The last thing she needed was Grim’s court questioning her motives even more than they already did.

Grim didn’t look suspicious at all. He smiled.

Then his eyes caught on her bracelets.

“Hearteater,” he said carefully, his deep voice making her chest feel tight. “If you remember, there’s a closet of jewelry for you just off your quarters.” There was. It was filled with centuries’ worth of ancient gems, mostly featuring black diamonds. Not that any of those stones rivaled the one against her throat.

She ignored him and the ridiculous sparks spreading through her at something as simple as his voice as she walked to her seat opposite his own at the long table. They were both seated at the heads. It made for an impractical dinner. Now, as he continued to study her bracelets, she was grateful for the space between them.

Until Grim appeared at her side and gently took her wrist in his palm. He hissed, touching the metal. “What did you do, heart?”

“What I had to,” she said, turning her attention to the goblet of wine in front of her. It smelled slightly floral. She took a sip.

“You don’t have to hide yourself,” Grim said. “Not with me. Not here. Not ever.”

She wanted to tell him that she needed to hide most here, because despite hating him, she loved him, and that love had made her do horrible things.

She wanted to tell him that she remembered everything in vivid detail. Like the time they had forgone dinner entirely, and Grim had wrapped the room in shadows and laid her on this very table and—

Grim must have felt the shift in her emotions, because his eyes darkened. As though he too was remembering.

He eyed the side of the table, as if he could see the memory. As if he could taste it.

Isla swallowed, and his gaze shifted to her throat. Her necklace suddenly felt very heavy against it, though it had rarely bothered her before. Her skin prickled on instinct, and—

“You visited the blacksmith.” His words interrupted her thoughts.

She didn’t deny it. Grim only frowned, then returned to his seat across the table.

They ate in silence. The meal was perfect; he had purposefully ensured her favorite foods were made—charred vegetables, spiced grains, buttered potatoes. Still, she didn’t say a word, and it was up to Grim to break the tension.

“Your leopard bit the gardener,” he said. At night, Lynx slept with Isla; but that day, she had let him roam free.

Isla frowned. “What did the gardener do? Lynx doesn’t bite unprovoked.”

Grim narrowed his eyes. “That beast tried to bite me. And I haven’t done anything but house and feed him.”

“You provoke him with your very presence.” She took another sip of wine.

Grim sat back. He picked up his own wine. Casually turned it in its glass. “So, is this it, then? You’re going to pretend to hate me?”

She was out of her chair and on her feet in a moment. “I’m not pretending,” she spat, glaring.

He stood too. “Really? I can feel your emotions, heart. If you’re going to lie, you should get better at it.”

Her hands shook at her sides with anger. “I’m not lying,” she said, raising her voice. “You’re only lying to yourself if you thought waging a war would get me back here to be your loving, naïve, idiotic wife!”

Any amusement left Grim’s expression. “I didn’t wage a war to get you back here. I did it to try to save you.”

“And how did that work out?” she demanded, her voice echoing through the room.

Grim was silent. His eyes weren’t gleaming anymore. Any light in them had shuttered away. She had hurt him. Good.

They stared at each other from each end of the table, chests heaving, her heart hammering.

She wanted to hurt him more.

She wanted to rush into his arms.

She was two people—Isla from before the Centennial, who married the Nightshade ruler; and Isla from afterward, who had battled against him.

“I—I can’t do this,” she said, meaning it. She couldn’t sit here having dinner, pretending Grim hadn’t been her enemy just days before. She couldn’t pretend he wasn’t still her enemy.

She couldn’t pretend there wasn’t a prophecy that said she was just as likely to kill Oro as she was him.

She darted for the door. Grim appeared in front of it right as she reached for the handle.

“Please,” he said, his eyes wide. Desperate. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry. Hate me,” he pleaded. “Hate me all you want. Hate me forever. Just—just don’t leave.” He took a step toward her. “I love you, Isla. I need you.”

She didn’t need Grim’s ability to read emotions in order to understand the depths of devastation in his eyes. To know she really was his heart, the center of his life, and she had been ripped away from him. She had left him. She had chosen Oro, and it had clearly left its mark.

But he had done it to himself.

Her voice was shaking as she said, “You had me. And you lost me all on your own.”

She didn’t think his devastation could deepen, but it did. And this time, when she shoved past him, he didn’t stop her.