Light of the Dawn

3. Clare

Forty years. Four decades of silence, of suffering, of enduring the unforgivable, and still, Isarella had not broken entirely. She was numb in so many ways, a shell of the girl who had once lived freely in the light, but she hadn't shattered. Not completely. And that small, quiet spark of defiance deep within her, buried beneath layers of pain, was the last part of her that still felt alive.

It was no longer the rage-filled girl she had once been. She had fought and screamed, tried to claw her way out of Amarantha's grasp, only to be crushed again and again. Each time she had fought back, it had been met with harsher punishment. Her body bore the scars of that resistance—whip marks, bruises, and the endless ache of things too dark to name. But it was her spirit that had been slowly battered, not broken. Her mind, fragile as it felt at times, had not surrendered to the hopelessness Amarantha had tried to sow in her.

She was still here. She had survived.

For forty years, she and Rhysand had been trapped in a nightmare, their lives twisted into something cruel, forced into roles they never chose. Side by side, they had become each other's lifelines—sometimes holding each other together in silence, sometimes in desperate, unspoken comfort. Their shared trauma had woven a connection between them, a bond that couldn't be severed by anything Amarantha did. Yet, even with this shared strength, Isarella couldn't stop herself from feeling the weight of the years closing in on her.

Rhysand was always there, always by her side. His presence was constant, a reminder of the family he had lost and the pain that tied them together. He would whisper words of encouragement when she had none left for herself.

"Stay strong, Isa," he'd say, his voice rough and desperate. "We'll get out of this. We will."

She wanted to believe him. She truly did. But with each passing year, the hope felt more like a distant memory, a dream that slipped further from her reach. She was tired. So tired.

Today was another day. Another day she walked beside Rhysand, through the halls of Amarantha's palace, her body bare as always, her soul hollowed out from years of torment. The whispers of whore followed them like a shadow, clinging to the walls as they passed. She tried to ignore them, to drown them out, but it was hard. The words were like daggers, each one aimed at her heart, each one reminding her that she had been reduced to something less than human in their eyes.

"Isa, I need you to stay strong! She's breaking you," Rhysand had pleaded just moments ago, squeezing her hand tightly.

Isarella felt a dull pang of frustration and sorrow in her chest. She had tried to stay strong. For years, she had tried to hold on to something, anything, that reminded her of who she was before this place. But after so long, it became harder and harder to see herself as anything other than the person Amarantha had made her. A toy. A plaything.

"I can't, Rhys. Not anymore," she had murmured, her voice hollow with exhaustion. She had pulled her hand from his and walked away.

Inside their shared quarters, the silence felt suffocating. The walls that had once seemed like a prison now felt like the only place where she could breathe. It was a small space, but it was hers, and that meant something. She collapsed onto the bed, her body heavy with years of trauma, but even now, even in the depths of her despair, there was a part of her—small, faint—that still refused to give up.

It wasn't much. But it was something.

She stared at the stone ceiling, her mind wandering. Rhysand had been her anchor for so long, and she couldn't deny the bond they shared. She cared for him. But more than that, she knew that their shared experiences, their mutual pain, had created a connection that would be hard to break.