Light of the Dawn

8. Shadows of the Past

Isarella's heart pounded as she stood in front of the ornate doors leading to her father's study. The heavy wood gleamed under the sunlight streaming through the palace windows, but the weight of the moment dulled its beauty. Behind those doors, her father awaited her—her fierce and unyielding protector who had weathered centuries of political storms in the Dawn Court. Today, however, even he seemed uneasy.

Her golden blonde hair, meticulously curled, shimmered as she adjusted her flowing pink silk dress. The fabric clung lightly to her form before cascading to the floor like liquid starlight. Hidden beneath the elegance, the cold steel of her twin daggers pressed against her thighs, a reminder that beauty alone was never enough.

Perseus smiled softly as his eyes met hers, but Isarella didn't miss the tension in his jaw. "You look radiant, Isa," he said, his voice warm but subdued. "Though I wish today wasn't the first time in years you'd have to face him."

Her stomach tightened. "Rhysand."

The name was a whisper, barely audible, but the room seemed to grow heavier as she said it. Memories of darkness, cruelty, and the suffocating weight of Under the Mountain pressed at the edges of her mind. Months of rebuilding herself hadn't erased the scars.

Perseus placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You've grown stronger, Isarella. Stronger than you realize. No matter what happens in that meeting, remember who you are. Who we are."

She nodded, the words grounding her. "I won't let them see me falter."

With a final squeeze of her shoulder, Perseus led her through the halls of the palace. Dawn Court attendants bustled about, their movements quick and purposeful as they prepared for the arrival of the High Lords. The tension was palpable; everyone knew the stakes.

As they entered the grand meeting hall, sunlight poured in through massive stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors over the marble floor. The table at the center gleamed, polished to perfection, surrounded by high-backed chairs for the seven High Lords. Isarella's place was set beside her parents', though her throat tightened at the thought of who would sit across from her.

Elise appeared at her side, her touch light on Isarella's arm. "They're arriving," she whispered, her voice steady but tinged with worry.

The first to enter was Helion, his radiant presence commanding the room. He gave Isarella a wink, his golden robes catching the light. Next came Tarquin, whose cool demeanor belied the storm in his ocean-blue eyes. Slowly, the other High Lords filled the space—Kallias, Beron, and Thesan, each exuding their own unique blend of power and authority.

And then, she felt it.

A ripple of shadow and starlight crept into the room, making the air crackle. Isarella forced herself to stay seated, her spine straight and her expression serene. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing how much his presence unnerved her.

Rhysand entered last, flanked by his Inner Circle. He was every bit as she remembered, his violet eyes scanning the room with calculated ease. His gaze landed on her, and for a fraction of a second, his mask slipped.

Shock. Regret. Something else she couldn't place.

But then the mask returned, and he gave her a slow, deliberate nod. "Princess," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "It's been too long."

The room seemed to hold its breath.

She rose from her chair, her pink dress flowing like a tide around her. Meeting his eyes, she inclined her head. "High Lord Rhysand," she replied, her voice steady. "Welcome to the Dawn Court."

If he noticed the daggers strapped beneath her dress, he didn't show it. But something in his gaze lingered, as though he could see past the armor she'd so carefully constructed.