Light of the Dawn

2. Play thing (TRIGGER WARNING; SA)

The first few days under the mountain were a blur of confusion and fear. Isarella had been tossed into a cold, stone cell, the door clanging shut behind her with finality. For the first time in her life, she felt completely alone. But there was one thing that puzzled her — her captors never starved her. They kept her fed, her meals delivered three times a day, each dish more sumptuous than the last. She was given clean, soft sheets, fresh water, and even little luxuries like a soft comb for her hair. It didn't make sense. Prisoners didn't receive such treatment.

And her appearance? Even more perplexing. When she gazed into the tarnished, cracked mirror hanging in the corner of her cell, she was shocked to see how well kept she looked. Her long, golden hair was always brushed, her skin free of the dirt and grime one would expect after days of confinement. Was there a deeper plan behind this? Or was it some sick game?

The truth of it came to her only one evening when, after an uncharacteristic silence, the heavy doors of her cell opened. She was pulled from her bed, blindfolded, and led through the winding corridors of the dark, damp castle.

As they approached the throne room, Isarella's heart began to race. She knew her father was here somewhere. She could feel it — the dread, the sickening pull in her stomach. What had they done to him?

When the heavy doors of the throne room opened, she heard a sharp intake of breath. She didn't need to see it to know her father stood there, his desperate gaze fixed on her. Her eyes flicked to him, catching sight of his tall, noble form standing rigid against the far wall, his hands clenched at his sides.

But it was the presence of the other figures that stole her attention.

Amarantha's cold laugh echoed through the stone room, cutting through the tension like a knife. Isarella's gaze snapped to the queen, who rose from her throne with a predatory grace. A wicked smile stretched across her painted lips.

"My, my, what a beautiful thing you are, Princess," Amarantha cooed, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "And isn't she just stunning, Rhysand?" She glanced over her shoulder to where Rhysand stood, his usual smirk absent, a look of something like pity in his dark eyes.

"Yes, my Queen," Rhysand answered with an ease that betrayed his discomfort. "But no one could ever be as beautiful as you."

The words were smooth, practiced — empty, hollow compliments. Isarella had heard them a thousand times before from courtiers eager to earn favor. But from Rhysand, they felt different. He wasn't saying them out of duty. There was something else behind his gaze, a sadness, a resigned understanding.

Isarella stiffened. She had heard the rumors — of Rhysand's forced servitude, of his position as Amarantha's pet. And yet, seeing it firsthand, seeing the way he stood there, so composed, his eyes flickering with sorrow, it broke something inside her.

She opened her mouth to speak, but her father's voice, trembling with desperation, rang out across the room.

"Amarantha, please," Thesan begged, his voice cracking with the weight of his fear. "I'll give you anything. Just don't harm her. Don't touch her."

"Ta-ta, High Lord," Amarantha replied with a glint of malice in her voice. "Your little princess will be very, very special to me."

Isarella's blood turned to ice. The implications of her words — the twisted delight in them — filled her with dread. She glanced at her father, but he was staring at Amarantha with such helplessness that it only fueled her fear.

Then, Amarantha looked back to Rhysand.

"Rhysand," she purred, "take the princess to my quarters. And wait for my further instructions."