Light of the Dawn | Azriel |

4. Pain

The following morning, Isarella limped toward the throne room, her body aching from the previous night's punishment. The remnants of her lash marks, still raw and angry, stood out starkly against her pale skin, exposed beneath the skimpy lingerie that Amarantha required her to wear. Every step felt like a battle—her legs trembling under the weight of the pain—but she forced herself to continue, knowing there was no other choice.

As she neared her spot next to Rhysand, she caught his gaze. His eyes widened with shock, and his face, usually so composed, was filled with concern and sympathy. It made her heart twist. The last thing she wanted was for him to pity her. She quickly looked away, her pulse quickening, a flood of emotions threatening to overtake her.

Amarantha sat on her black, glistening throne, her lips curling into a sinister grin as she watched Isarella's every move. She was pleased. Isarella could feel it in the air, the suffocating pressure of Amarantha's gaze, like a noose tightening around her throat. But it wasn't just Amarantha who was present today.

Tamlin, the High Lord of the Spring Court, sat on the stone steps near the throne, his face drained of color. His once vibrant features were hollow, the life in his eyes dimmed as if all hope had been ripped from him. He looked utterly defeated, his posture slumped, as though the weight of this place had crushed him into submission. Isarella could see the pain in his eyes—pain that mirrored her own. He seemed like a shell of the High Lord who had once been so full of strength.

Then, as if to bring her out of the trance of watching Tamlin's misery, she felt a droplet hit her cheek. It was cold. She reached up to wipe it away, only to freeze when she realized it wasn't water. It was blood.

Her stomach churned as she looked down, seeing a small pool of crimson staining the cold stone floor beneath her. Slowly, her gaze shifted upward, and there she saw the source of the blood—Clare. Her body was nailed to the wall in a grotesque display of Amarantha's wrath. Her face, once filled with life, was now unrecognizable, battered and bruised beyond recognition. Her mouth hung open, blood dripping from her lips, staining the stones beneath her. Isarella's breath caught in her throat.

This was the extent of Amarantha's cruelty. This was the monster she had become.

Isarella's heart pounded in her chest as the full weight of the horror hit her. Clare, the girl she had tried so desperately to comfort, was now just another victim of Amarantha's evil. The girl had not deserved this, no one did. But this was the reality they lived in. A world of unrelenting pain and suffering, where innocence was torn apart and discarded without a second thought.

Tears blurred her vision, and she could feel the overwhelming grief and helplessness building inside her, but she refused to let it break her. She couldn't. Not here. Not in front of Amarantha. The high queen, the monster, watched them all like puppets, playing with their pain for her own twisted amusement.

Isarella gritted her teeth and forced herself to stay standing. She couldn't let Amarantha see her falter. She couldn't let the Queen think she had won. Not yet.

As Isarella was escorted out of the throne room, her eyes lingered on Clare's broken body one last time. She whispered, "I'm sorry," even though deep down she knew she wasn't to blame. She couldn't save Clare, couldn't change the fate that had been sealed for her. But the words felt right, the only form of remorse she could give. A sorrowful apology that hung in the air, unanswered.

When she was pushed into Amarantha's quarters, the guards didn't care to be gentle. They shoved her inside with a cruel force, slamming the heavy wooden door behind her. The impact sent her crashing to the floor, the soft rug doing little to cushion her fall. The pain shot through her body like a bolt of lightning, but she didn't let out a sound. She couldn't—no longer had the energy to.