Grim
They had a shred of something living from Skyshade. The only thing left was energy—and Oro said he knew just where to get it.
“I’m going to get her back,” he said, placing his hand against his dragon’s scales. It wasn’t the first time he had made this promise.
But he had always kept it. He always went after her.
He just hoped she would always come back to him.
Clenching his teeth, Grim thought about what Oro had said. Isla had visited him in a dream too. Grim had meant what he said to his wife—he didn’t blame her for her actions at all. He only blamed himself. It wasn’t jealousy he felt right now, or anger . . . but fear.
If she chose Oro, he didn’t know what he would do. He wasn’t known for his willingness to share, but he would rather take any piece of her that she was willing to give than lose her completely.
But the prophecy was clear. There was a choice to be made. She couldn’t have both.
As much as he wanted her to choose him, he thought about all those words Oro had hurled at him. They had hit him like daggers.
If Grim made her a worse version of herself . . . then maybe she was better off without him.
No. He couldn’t think like that. But he could admit, as much as it pained him, that he just wanted her to be happy.
And if a future with Oro made her happier . . .
He shook away the thought. Isla and Grim were infinite. He had to believe in the strength of their love. Especially now. It was the only thing he had left.
Wind howled around them as they circled the grounds of the winter palace. Wraith loved to fly here—he liked the snow.
Flurries fell now, in gentle sweeps. Wraith made a circle around the grounds. Then another. Then another.
Grim was about to tell his dragon it was time to go home, when his eyes caught the maze. The one he had entered a hundred times before. The one he had escaped to as a child. The one that his father had burned to the ground. The one that had grown back, like a stubborn weed.
The one his wife had left him in.
He had never studied the labyrinth from this perspective before though. From this height, it had a distinct shape . . . not unlike the drawings he had seen in Isla’s book of skyres.
Of course.
Once Wraith landed roughly on the ground, Grim didn’t waste a second. He portaled off Wraith’s back, pulled that singed feather from his pocket—where he had been carrying it, should he figure the shape out—and stuck its point into his arm.
His skin stung, and blood burbled. But he gritted his teeth and began to carve. With each line he drew, the pain mounted, until it was pure agony, nearly bringing him to his knees. Fuck, this hurt. Was this what Isla had experienced?
Wraith was at his back, shifting with worry. Grim’s shadows puddled around the creature in comfort. He made the marking as best he could, even as his hand shook.
Until finally, he connected the last line to meet the first, completing the symbol, and it gleamed, hardening into silver.
He was right. This was Cronan’s skyre.