Oro shot a look at the sky. “No,” he said quietly. “We ...Idon’thave time. One place is easier to access than the others. And, for both of our sakes, let’s hope that is where the heart is.”
Isla nodded, though her teeth locked in disappointment. She wanted to find the heart that night, as soon as possible, so she could break the curses, free her people, and get the power before the oracle’s words could come true. Before her secret came to light and made her a target for fulfilling the rest of the prophecy.
“Tomorrow?” she said, cape wrapped tightly around her.
“Tomorrow,” Oro agreed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PUDDLE
Later that night, Isla stood in her room, holding her starstick.
Before the Centennial had even started, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t use the relic to look at her home. Part of her feared she would miss the Wildling newland so much, she would make a rash decision and leave the game, portaling away.
Now, so much had changed. She wasn’t the same person who had arrived on the island two months prior.
Before, she had never even spoken to a man unsupervised for more than a few minutes. Now, one had touched her up and down her body.
Before, she thought she would cower before the rulers. Now, she had beaten them in trials. Threatened them. She had even saved the king.
Before, she believed it was wrong to want anything other than to break her and her realm’s curses.
Now, she wanted everything.
She drew her puddle of stars, almost hoping that her old self would click back into place at the sight of her realm and people.
The edges quivered, alive—spilled ink and diamonds. The stars faded into different colors, the hues sputtering and forming quickly before her eyes. They scattered until she was looking at Wildling.
Blood drained from her face. Her heart became all she could hear, beating unsteadily in her chest.
It was gone.
The forests had been razed. The Wildling palace was nearly destroyed. Villages were empty.
This had to be a trick—an illusion.
Her hand trembled as she touched the starstick, leading it somewhere else. The colors scattered until she was looking at a woman, sprawled across what was left of the forest floor. Her tan skin had hardened, turned to sheets of bark. Strands of her hair had become vines. One hand was already roots in the ground.
It was Terra.
Isla stopped breathing.
Her guardian had started to be taken by nature, just like the Eldress. The first steps of a Wildling death. Isla’s stomach went watery, her mouth went dry, her vision blurred—
She was about to jump into the puddle, to go to Terra, but forced herself still.
There was nothing she could do. She was powerless. Reversing a Wildling death that had already begun required endless ability and enchantment.
And her realm had none of that to spare.
Terra.Her fighting instructor, the closest person to her in the world. The one who had taught her nearly everything she knew.
Poppy was kneeling next to her, applying an elixir that would delay the transition. But it wouldn’t save her. It wouldn’t save their realm.
“I reach my hand into the dirt, to speak to the trees,” Terra told Poppy, voice frailer than Isla thought possible. “But the dirt is dead in my hand.”
Poppy held Terra’s few soft fingers. “We still have time,” she said. “Our little bird is still fighting for us.”
