Light of the Dawn

15. Try

Isarella sat frozen, her eyes fixed on the empty chair Azriel had vacated in his anger. The room, once filled with conversation and clinking cutlery, now felt cavernous and oppressively silent. Her chest ached as she replayed the brief look in his eyes—betrayal, fury, and something deeper that she couldn't name.

Across the table, Feyre's soft voice broke through her daze. "I'm so sorry, Isa. I didn't know what you were going through. If I had, we would've come. We would've helped. I understand how it feels..." Feyre paused, her voice tinged with sadness. "Tamlin locked me up in the Spring Court once. I know what that kind of suffocation does to someone."

Isarella wanted to respond, to tell Feyre she understood, but her voice refused to come. She simply kept staring at the chair, the weight of her emotions pressing her down like a stone.

Perseus, her father, kept his hand gently resting on hers. It was a silent gesture, his way of saying he was there, that he wouldn't leave her alone in this storm.

One by one, the others began to filter out of the dining room, the scrape of chairs and soft murmurs fading into the quiet. Perseus kissed Isarella's forehead and whispered, "Goodnight, my light," before following Feyre to his room.

Now alone, Rhysand approached. He moved carefully, his presence warm but not overbearing, before taking the seat beside her. "Hey," he said softly, his voice a balm to the rawness of the moment. "What's going on? You can talk to me, Isa."

Slowly, she tore her gaze from the chair and met his violet eyes. The anguish in her heart spilled into her voice as it cracked, "Do you hate me?"

Rhysand's brows knit together in confusion and pain. "Isa," he began, taking her hands gently in his own, "why would I ever hate you?"

Tears welled in her eyes. "Because of everything I said to you. All those awful things. I attacked you. I hurt you." Her voice broke on the last word, the shame threatening to consume her.

Rhysand sighed, his expression softening. "Isa, listen to me. I deserved it. I hurt you first. When I left to help Feyre under the mountain, I didn't realize what it cost you. I didn't know what you were going through. You had every right to be angry with me. I just... I just hope you can forgive me."

"I forgave you a long time ago, Rhys," she whispered, her tears spilling over. "But I hated myself. When you—when you died, I was so angry. Angry that I didn't get to tell you how sorry I was. I'm sorry, Rhys. I'm so sorry." Her sobs shook her as she collapsed into his arms, clutching him like a lifeline.

Rhys held her tightly, his own tears tracing silent paths down his face. "Oh, Isa," he murmured, his voice thick. "I forgave you long ago, too. You don't need to carry this weight anymore."

But Isarella shook her head. "I can't forgive myself. I don't deserve anything—not you, not my mate." Her voice broke again as she choked out, "Azriel hates me. I know he does."

Rhys pulled back just enough to cup her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Isarella, listen to me. You deserve the world and more. Azriel doesn't hate you. He's just—he's hurting, too. You both are. Maybe... maybe it's time you talked to him?"

A frown tugged at her lips. "I wouldn't even know what to say."

Rhys smiled gently. "You'll know when the time comes. But for now, I have something that might cheer you up." He stood, tugging her to her feet with a playful glint in his eye. "I've been waiting for this moment. I had a room decorated just for you. I didn't know when you'd come, but I wanted you to feel at home when you did."

Curiosity sparked in her chest as he led her down the hallway to a pristine white door. He opened it slowly, revealing the space within.

Isarella gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. The room was bathed in soft, warm light. Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a small balcony, and a canopy bed with sheer curtains sat at the center, inviting and luxurious. Shelves lined one wall, packed with books, while candles flickered gently on the mantle of a small fireplace. But what caught her attention most was the delicate writing desk tucked into a corner, notebooks stacked neatly atop it.