The Wildling newland had been formed just five hundred years prior, but its foundation was ancient. It was said that after they fled the island and its cursed storm, a hundred Wildlings sacrificed themselves to create their new land, relinquishing their power to the dry, infertile dirt.Flowers bloomed from their blood, forests grew in a matter of weeks, and the newland was born from their bones.
That was what the wind said, anyway. Isla had found it to be quite dramatic.
Sometimes, she would answer it. Confide in it. Trapped in her orb of fogged glass, she spoke her thoughts to the wind.
It never responded. Not once.
But Isla hoped it listened.
They reached yet another steep incline. Her calves began to strain.
She wasn’t sure why the king would take her to this part of the Mainland. What was there even to see? The ocean?
Then, she spotted it. Something had swallowed the coast.
A storm gone still.
Dark clouds like blotches of ink stained the sky above the beach. Silver lightning strikes thick as blades shot out of them and down to the sand, glittering in jittering energy. A ringlet of fire hovered close by, its flames stuck in time. Enormous, deadly spouts leaked from gaps in the clouds, long sheets of water like beams of moonlight tinged in purple.
The sea had been pulled back like a blanket and stacked high—a wave tall as a tower crested but never fell. It was frozen, though not in ice. Even from her height, Isla could see the water running within it, bubbling. Waiting. It had left a long stretch of sea floor uncovered. Sparkling gems and long-lost ancient trinkets coated the sand, alongside shells.
It was the curse on the island, temporarily subdued. The enchanted storm.
Was this what Azul was always visiting?
There were whispers, calling her forward. The storm pulsed with power. She wanted to see it up close.
The cliff closest to the storm was broken into shards. Parts of it had fallen away, leaving two-hundred-foot gaps between half a dozen islandsof rock. Some were connected by hastily made bridges, with planks so far apart it seemed easier to fall through than actually reach the next step. They made the bridges to the isles look safe.
The king took a step toward one.
“No,” she said simply.
Oro turned to look at her.
“No?” he asked, as if he must have misheard her.
She didn’t meet his eyes but could have guessed he was looking down at her with something like disgust.
The king sighed. She saw a flash of movement, like he had pressed his fingers to his temple in frustration. “It is steady. But if for some reason you did fall, I would obviously save you.”
Isla turned and pinned him with a glare.“Saveme? Like you did the first day?”
Oro stiffened. Then he returned her look and said,“Yes, like I saved you the first day.”
She barked out a laugh. “I hit the water! And you left me in a puddle on the balcony, like discarded trash, without even bothering to wait and see if I woke up!”
He scoffed. “You might have hit the water before I got to you, but you also had a head injury that you wouldnothave woken up from if I hadn’t healed you.”
Isla remembered the pounding of her head, how there hadn’t been any blood. She straightened. “You just admitted you didn’t get to me until it was practically too late, so the only way I’m crossing this bridge is if you’re tightly by my side. So, if I fall,you fall.”
Oro looked at her as if he might just shove her over the side himself. “Fine,” he said through his teeth, and roughly took her arm in his.
Before Isla could hesitate, he dragged them both onto the bridge.
Isla didn’t breathe. Wind blew up through the cracks, sending chills up her legs. They had suddenly gone as stiff as the thin planks of wood shifting wildly beneath them.
“Quickly,” she whispered, closing her eyes. She stepped one foot in front of the other, trying not to think about how it had felt to plunge, plunge, plunge into the sea from the balcony. How her breath had been ripped from her chest. How she had—
