Light of the Dawn | Azriel |

7. Haunted

Isarella sat by the window, the soft golden light of dawn creeping over the horizon, casting its warm glow across the room. It should have been beautiful, the kind of morning she used to cherish. The world outside seemed to hum with the promise of a new day, but inside her, there was nothing but emptiness. The vibrant colors of the sun against the sky reminded her of everything she had once loved, everything she had lost. She could feel the weight of her past like a lead blanket, suffocating her, never allowing her to breathe freely.

It had been almost two years since they escaped the mountain, yet it felt like she had never left.

Isarella's fingers twitched as she stared out the window, but she didn't reach for her quill or parchment. She hadn't written a single word since they returned. The idea of putting her thoughts down on paper had once been her refuge, her way of making sense of the world. Now, even the thought of it felt foreign. She couldn't bear to look at her notebooks anymore. The words, the poems she had once loved to create, felt tainted, as if they too had been polluted by the horrors she had endured.

It's like I've forgotten how to be me, she thought, the bitterness sinking deeper with each passing day.

When they first escaped the mountain, she thought everything would go back to normal. She thought she could just wash away the scars—both the visible and the invisible. She had hoped that returning to her family, returning home, would fix everything, would make her whole again. But she was wrong.

She wasn't whole anymore. She was broken, shattered beyond repair.

The memories came rushing back in waves, relentless and unforgiving. The whips, the sexual abuse, the sharp sting of Amarantha's power against her skin. The way Rhys had helped her with his dark magic, twisting her mind and then abandoning her. The loss of Clare, her friend. The unending days of fear, isolation, and pain.

She tried to close her eyes, to shut the memories out, but they consumed her. Every night, she relived the horrors, and every morning, she awoke with the taste of fear on her tongue, her heart racing as if she were still trapped in Amarantha's dungeons.

Why can't I be free? Isarella thought, tears welling in her eyes. Why does this pain never leave me?

She had tried to move on. She had tried to return to the life she once knew, to walk through the streets of her court, to speak with her parents without feeling like a stranger. But the world outside felt alien to her now. Every gaze that landed on her seemed to pierce through her, judging her, questioning her.

Her family—her beloved fathers—had tried to reach her. They had tried to comfort her, to pull her out of the darkness, but nothing worked. Every time they spoke to her, every time they knocked on her door, she panicked. She couldn't face them. Couldn't bear to look into their eyes, afraid they would see the broken pieces of her soul that she couldn't piece back together.

She avoided them, retreated further into herself. And every day, she withered a little more.

It was on one of those long, silent days that her father, Thesan, finally broke through.

The knock on the door was soft at first, a tentative reminder that her father still cared. But when she didn't answer, when she didn't respond to his quiet calls, Thesan's patience cracked. With a mixture of worry and desperation, he pushed the door open.

Isarella's heart lurched as soon as she heard it. Her father's voice—so full of concern, so full of love—was enough to send her spiraling. She had been hiding in the corner of her room, her knees pulled tightly to her chest, shaking with the weight of everything she couldn't escape. The moment the door creaked open, she bolted to the closet, her breath coming in panicked bursts.