Light of the Dawn

19 Breaking

Isarella woke with a sharp, disorienting breath, her body trembling as the cold, suffocating air of her surroundings filled her lungs. For a fleeting moment, she forgot where she was, and her mind tried to cradle her in a desperate illusion of safety. But then it all came rushing back-the pond, Nyx's cries, Rhys's anguished face as she shoved her nephew into his arms. The arrow. The whip. The iron box.

A sob tore from her throat as reality crashed down on her. Her body ached, her muscles stiff from the cramped confinement of the box. Her golden hair, once gleaming with life, was matted with sweat and dried blood. The faint tang of faebane lingered in her mouth, poisoning her senses and numbing her magic.

Azriel. Her mate. Her heart fractured anew as she thought of him. She'd never told him— never said the words that burned in her chest every time she looked at him. She had thought they had time. Time for a mating ceremony, for a home filled with laughter and children, for stolen moments under the stars.
But now, all that remained was pain.

She reached for the bond, desperate to feel the faintest thread of Azriel's presence. Her heart squeezed when she felt nothing. It wasn't severed-she would have felt that agony. But the iron, the faebane— it was like drowning, the bond suffocated beneath the weight of her captivity.

Before she could spiral further, the box opened, and blinding light assaulted her eyes. Rough hands dragged her out, and she fell to her knees on the cold stone floor.

"Nothing to say, father?" she rasped, her voice hoarse from dehydration and despair.
Thesan stood before her, his expression unreadable. There was a flicker of something in his eyes-regret, perhaps? But it was fleeting, replaced by an icy mask of indifference.

She hated him for it.

When she glanced down, she noticed her arm was bandaged, though it throbbed painfully beneath the crude wrappings. Her clothes were no longer her own, replaced by a torn white shirt, stained with blood and grime. Iron cuffs encased her wrists, heavy and cruel, their dark magic biting into her skin.

The sound of Beron's voice drew her attention. He strode into the room, his steps deliberate, his smirk oozing malice. "Ah, Isarella. A vision, even now," he sneered. "I brought you a gift."

He held up an iron mask, its surface jagged and malevolent, infused with dark magic that sent chills through her.

She recoiled instinctively, her chains clinking as she backed away.
Beron's laugh was sharp and cold. "Hold her," he ordered.

Thesan hesitated but eventually obeyed, his hands gripping her arms as Beron secured the mask over her face. The iron was suffocating, the magic oppressive, and Isarella screamed, tears streaking her face as the mask locked into place. There were only two small holes for her eyes and two for breathing, and even they felt like a cruel mockery of freedom.

Beron's laughter echoed in her ears as he punched her in the stomach. The air rushed out of her lungs, and she doubled over in pain. He grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to look at him.

"We're going to have so much fun, you and I," he whispered, his breath hot against the iron of the mask. She clenched her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

The moment was interrupted as guards dragged someone into the room. Eris, Beron's eldest son, was shoved forward, his face pale but defiant.

"He was caught speaking to the Shadowsinger," one of the guards said. "We thought you'd want to handle it, High Lord."

Beron's eyes burned with fury. "You dare disobey me?" He slapped Eris hard across the face, sending him to the ground. Eris's gaze flickered to Isarella, and for a brief moment, there was a glimmer of sympathy in his eyes.