Lightlark (Lightlark, #1)

by Alex Aster

Five hundred years before, each of the six realms—Wildling, Starling, Moonling, Skyling, Sunling, and Nightshade—were cursed, their strengths turned into their own personal poisons. Each curse was uniquely wicked. Wildlings’ was twofold. They were cursed to kill anyone they fell in love with—and to live exclusively on human hearts. They turned into terrifyingly beautiful monsters with the wicked power to seduce with a single look.

Lightlark was a shining, cliffy thing. Its bluffs were white as bone, and sunlight rained down in sheets of misted gold.

Nightshades left the island shortly afterward to form their own land. Wildlings left after the curses. The pieces that remained were Star Isle for the Starlings, Sky Isle for the Skylings, Moon Isle for the Moonlings, and Sun Isle for the Sunlings. Then, there was the Mainland, where all the realms had traditionally gathered together. It was the Centennial’s base.

The Mainland castle loomed nearby, set high on a cliff like a crown jewel, jutting precariously out over the sea. Large enough to be its own city. Which was good, considering its main inhabitant could not leave it. Not during the day, at least.

He. The Sunling ruler and king of Lightlark. The last remaining Origin, with blood from each of the four realms that still had a presence on the island. He could wield each of the four Lightlark powers.

“The first rule. A ruler may not assassinate or attempt to assassinate another ruler until after the fiftieth day.” The rule was a relief to Isla. For at least half of the Centennial, powerless or not, she would be safe. Which was why she and Celeste planned to be off the island before the ball on the fiftieth day even took place. “And, when pairs are decided on the twenty-fifth day, a ruler may not assassinate their partner.”

“And I don’t know what I enjoy more. Replaying the image of my sword against your throat . . . or thinking about how your heart might look on my plate.” Grim’s dark eyes flashed with amusement. “Careful, Hearteater,” he whispered, towering over her, standing far too close. “I might just give it to you.”

Be still, child. Do not be easily troubled. You are a warrior. Let them fear you. Let them see what it means to be wild.

“How do Wildlings take their tea?” she asked, sharp eyes gleaming. “With a splash of blood?” Isla sipped the second tea slowly. This one—the gold one—tasted of caramel. “And we drink it from the skulls of our conquests,”