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 shetrusts me.
The fool.
Perhaps her anger is warranted. My littlecuriosityinjured 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 herapologizingto that woman. The idea of that womandaring 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 usallkilled.”
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.
