Ileana knows that her sister is the key to saving their world.
So when she has to travel to Prythian and stay behind so that Bryce can fulfill her destiny, then she accepts her fate. Despite the scowling Shadowsinger, who has to give up his blade t...
They were the stuff of bedtime stories spun to frighten unruly children. Yet, as she entered the Prison, it was the only word that felt fitting for the bleak landscape stretching into the horizon.
Craggy rocks swallowed what little sunlight dared to touch this forsaken place. There wasn't a single blade of grass, only dust. It wasn't simply the absence of vegetation that struck her, but something... heavier. The air felt stale, as if every breath had been stolen away centuries ago.
She recalled Rhysand's stern gaze as he declared this place of desolation her new task. It wasn't an exile. Exile spoke of punishment, and Ileana understood that this was the farthest thing from that. Rhys saw past her outbursts, past the power she flaunted but struggled to control. He'd spoken of lineage, of forgotten potential bound to this lifeless peak. "Find it," he'd said, "and perhaps you'll finally grasp the stardust running through your veins."
It had sounded grand, almost poetic. Now, amidst the oppressive silence, Ileana had her doubts. There was nothing here but shadows and remnants of what once might have been a mighty court. Her gaze swept across the Vault. Somewhere beneath the doubt, a speck of determination sparked.
It wouldn't be easy. But when was it ever was?
An inexplicable sense of rightness resonated within her. A thread of something ancient pulsed with each heartbeat, drawing her toward a shelf of Silene's journals. Ileana took a deep breath. This was her challenge now—to unveil secrets and a history that might finally unlock her true power.
The journals were relics she hadn't dared dream existed.
After taking the oldest one from the shelf, she settled onto the worn couch next to Cerbie. The Manticore was the only companion Rhys allowed her to have on this trip. But he was enough.
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The first few weathered pages painted a Dusk Court of unimaginable splendor. Waterfalls cascading down cliffsides wreathed in blooming vines, skies teeming with shimmering birds as starlight mingled with twilight... Silene possessed not just power, but the soul of an artist with every flourish of her writing.
But stepping out of that hushed chamber, scrolls cradled in her arms, the stark reality of the Prison mocked Silene's vibrant descriptions. The air remained stifling, the ground like hard-packed ash.
It was a tomb. And yet...
Just below the archway, nestled in a sliver of light escaping a crack in the rocks, bloomed a white flower. Impossibly delicate, five slender petals made it look like a miniature star dusted with a sheen of silver. Ileana crouched beside it, the brittle earth giving way slightly beneath her knees.
It shouldn't exist. Its ethereal beauty was a jarring defiance against the surrounding bleakness. It was as if the flower itself recognized her presence—a flicker of starlight answering the dormant song of stardust coursing within her. A silent signal that, despite appearances, this land wasn't completely lost.
