Grim
Don’t do it.
And fling it through the air, right at Cronan’s heart.
Fuck. Her aim was perfect. It would have worked, if Cronan hadn’t turned at the last moment—and stopped the fork an inch from his chest.
The room full of cheers went silent.
Isla made a choking sound as she was thrust into the air, her head pulled back, her arms stiff and wide by her sides. She was floating above the table. Giving everyone in the room a good look at her. Including those metallic markings she wore, like the one on his arm that was starting to burn.
This close, Grim could see her fingers moving, as if, somehow, she was breaking Cronan’s hold. Even if it was just in this small way.
She had courage, he would give her that.
She was also an idiot.
Cronan chuckled, and the rest of the table took it as an invitation to join him. Isla choked, her face draining of color. Cronan said, “Look at her. Fighting in vain for her pathetic planet.”
Isla gasped as Cronan’s shadows lurched through her forehead. And just like that, it was as if her mind had been emptied out as her memories spilled into the room for them to see.
They saw Lightlark. The market. The harbor.
They watched a clear assassination attempt on the Wildling by Moonlings.
Had it happened during the Centennial? He couldn’t remember.
The images shifted, and they watched as Tynan, one of Grim’s former council members, tried to slay her in her sleep.
Was that—was that his castle? Was that .
. . his bed? The room changed, and they watched as Isla was tied down by her own people and carved open like the food on the dinner table.
Grim frowned as the men around him laughed, spittle flying from their mouths. “You see,” Cronan said. “Only a fool would have any loyalty to a world that treated her like this.”
Isla shook with fury. Her fingers were twitching even more now as she struggled against Cronan’s hold.
Her face was pale, even under all the layers of paint they put on her.
Just when Grim was sure she would lose consciousness, Cronan released her.
The last memory dissolved in the air above them as Isla roughly fell into her seat.
She gasped for air, bent over, her nails clawing at the table.
He noticed something then that made his eyes narrow. He had to give it to the Wildling—she certainly had gall. He shook his head and almost smiled, choosing to keep it to himself. He’d rather see how this played out.
“For your own sake,” Cronan said to Isla, “I hope you learn. I hope you join us.” He gazed at the rest of his dinner guests. “For she would make an excellent queen of ashes, would she not?”
The men at the table nodded eagerly.
“And if she doesn’t come to her senses, will you kill her?” one of the men asked, lazily, as he sipped his goblet. He snapped his fingers, and one of the attendants, a woman with glassy eyes, refilled it immediately.
“Expeditiously,” Cronan said.
“A shame,” the man across from Grim said, his eyes glued to Isla’s chest, which was almost spilling out of this ridiculous dress she was wearing.
He didn’t know why the man’s leering made him want to turn him to dust. The man smiled at him good-naturedly—until he noticed Grim’s withering glare.
Cronan missed nothing. “Is there a problem, Grimshaw?” he asked.
He scowled at the name. He had always hated it. It reminded him of his father, who had never called him anything else. Slowly, he turned toward his ancestor. “No. I just think feasts are a waste of time.”
The room went silent. The other men gaped at him for speaking to Cronan this way. Especially after what he had just done.
But Grim knew his ancestor cared most about the continuation of his line. Especially now, at the precipice of his conquering a new galaxy. And Grim was the only progeny he had left.
Cronan pondered Grim’s words for a few moments. “I agree,” he finally said, far too casually. His eyes sharpened then, the switch in tone sudden and chilling. “It’s a good thing this isn’t a feast. It’s a sentencing.”
One of the chairs toppled over as the man sitting on it was flung back against the wall.
He writhed, unable to move, eyes bulging.
Cronan walked over to him slowly. “My dear, dear friend,” he said.
“How many centuries have we known each other?” His voice was a quiet hiss.
“And this . . . this is how you repay me?”
He lifted a vial, and the dinner guests gasped. “My attendants found this in your room. They might be emotionless, but they aren’t brainless. Poison? How small-minded.” He smirked. “The sad part is you thought a drop of this would work . . .”
At that, Cronan uncorked the bottle with his teeth, spit out the cap—and threw his head back as he drank it all. He swallowed. Pressed his lips together. The room seemed to hold its breath.
Nothing happened.
He called the attendant holding the wine over, and Grim could guess what would happen next.
“I saved you a drop,” he said, handing her the vial.
Wordlessly, and without hesitation, she drank it.
The glass had barely left her lips before the woman seized.
The wine bottle slipped out of her grip and shattered on the stone floor.
Crimson liquid spilled everywhere, red as blood. She collapsed a moment later.
Cronan turned back toward the man, who clutched at the wall, his eyes wide and terrified, saying, “I’m hard to kill. You should have known that.” He pursed his lips. “But I am not merciless . . . I’ll give you a chance to live. I always give second chances . . .”
Cronan held out his palm, and from his skin, the Threads of Time Grim had handed over surfaced.
With a brush of his finger, dozens of circular portals appeared, stacked vertically, close together, forming a tunnel of doors that rippled like water.
They spanned from an inch in front of the man, all the way to the other side of the room, going right through the middle of the dinner table.
“Fifty worlds. I’ve conquered each of them, so you will find my knights there. You will only be able to go to the next world once you’ve killed one of them. If you reach the other side of this room, then I’ll let you live. I’ll pretend this unfortunate event never happened.”
Grim watched this display of power in horror and fascination. Cronan had used the Threads of Time to summon different time periods with portals. He was combining his power with the threads . . .
Cronan released his hold, and the man fell through the first portal.
He surfaced a second later—looking ragged and wounded.
But not dead. Grim didn’t know how long it took the man to slaughter one of Cronan’s knights, but to their eyes, he was gone for only an instant.
The man fell into the next portal. When he emerged again, he was wearing different clothes that were covered in blood. Still alive, though.
The next time he appeared—twenty blades pierced his back. The rest of the portals collapsed together, then vanished.
The man fell forward onto the floor, a puddle of blood forming beneath him.
Cronan sighed. “Not even three lifetimes . . . A pity. For your world, too.”
The man’s aura was lifted off his skin and turned into the shape of his planet, with various rings of energy around it—
And it swept across the room, melding to his crown. His eyes closed. Cronan inhaled deeply, as if invigorated with the power of the planet. Above, one of the worlds in the crown formation vanished.
When Cronan’s eyes opened again, they were hard. “Anyone else planning an assassination?” he asked. He looked over each man, saving Isla for last.
Unlike the men . . . she held his gaze. She did not flinch beneath his study.
He was the one to glance away. Toward Grim. “Take her back to the cells,” he said, before sitting back down.
Grim took her arm and hauled her to her feet. But before they exited the room, she looked back at Cronan one last time—her gaze still defiant.
As Grim marched the Wildling through the ornate castle halls in silence, he wondered if giving Cronan the Threads of Time was a mistake.
His ancestor was more powerful than he had ever thought.
But had he truly had a choice? There were no secrets here, with Cronan’s mind abilities being what they were and his control over everyone in this castle.
The discovery of the poison only proved that.
This Wildling, on the other hand, still seemed intent on deceit. The fool.
As soon as they reached the dark lower levels of the dungeon, Grim turned and pinned her to the wall.
His fingers slid down her sides, and her lips parted in a gasp. He frowned. Her skin beneath his hands was warm and prickled in awareness. When he felt around for her aura, he did not sense fear from her at all. No. Only waves of desire.
“If you wanted to see if I was wearing underwear, you could have just asked,” she said, her voice a husky rasp.
He glared at her, and she held his gaze, those green eyes challenging him. He bared his teeth at her, just as he found what he had been looking for.
A reminder of exactly what she was. His murderer.
He slipped the knife from the band of her undergarments. He had noticed it was gone the moment she collapsed back into her seat at the table. The stunt with the fork had been a distraction. To get this.
The knife was made of powerful bone. But it wasn’t going to break her out of the cell. So why did she go through all of that to steal it?
“What’s this?” His grip tightened on its hilt. “Ready to stab me through the heart?”
“Why don’t you let me keep it and find out?” she said, her voice still that breathless whisper that had him leaning toward her mouth. This close, her feelings were overwhelming, spilling into his, and he gritted his teeth against them.
No. He wasn’t a weak fool who would fall for a temptress’s tricks.
He slipped the knife into his own pocket in response. That seemed to fascinate her. She must have expected he would run back to Cronan and report the prisoner’s infraction.
That would have relied on the assumption that he wanted anything to do with his ancestor’s plans to destroy their world. He was still ironing out his own, but he was starting to think she didn’t fit into them at all.
She was transparent. Emotional. Not half as clever as she thought she was. It was almost an insult to believe she could, in any future, be the death of him.
He reached toward her to drag her back to her cell.
Before he could, she slipped from his grip, turning so quickly that she blurred.
In a moment, his spine hit the wall. The breath was knocked from his lungs.
And the Wildling was on her toes in front of him, still nowhere near close to his height, her green eyes fierce and bright.
The knife he had slid into his pocket was now trained against his throat.