Light of the Dawn

20. Giving up

Isarella sat hunched in the suffocating darkness of her iron box, her frail body curled into itself like a withering flower denied sunlight. The days blurred together, indistinguishable in their endless torment. The air around her was heavy and stale, thick with the phantom stench of death that had once been all too real. She had counted the seconds, the minutes, the hours since her nightmare had begun, her mind marking each as if they could bring her closer to an end she could no longer envision.

Beron came every day at the exact same time, a twisted clockwork of cruelty. She still remembered the way he had left her father's lifeless body in the room with her, days stretching into an eternity before it had inconvenienced him enough to move it. Isarella had stayed silent, locking herself deep within the fragile sanctuary of her mind. When Eris had begun to retch from the stench, Isarella hadn't even noticed. She had been too far gone, lost in the lies she whispered to herself: You survived Amarantha. You can survive Beron, too.

But she was so tired. So very, very tired.

She wept quietly as she sang to herself, her voice barely more than a broken whisper.

"Where the north wind meets the sea... there's a mother full of memory... Come my darling, homeward bound..."

Her voice cracked, and her sobs choked the final line:

"When all is lost... then all is found."

Her tears slipped down her cheeks like rivers carving paths through the dust on her skin. The words offered no comfort anymore, only a hollow echo of hope she could no longer feel. She clung to the songs, the memories, the fragments of herself that hadn't yet been consumed by despair. But even those were slipping through her fingers like sand in a storm.

Beron appeared, his shadow falling across her prison at the exact moment she knew he would. The iron walls creaked as Autumn Court guards yanked her out. She didn't fight. There was no point.

"Isarella," Beron drawled, his voice cold and sharp like a blade gliding across her skin. "You will break. It's only a matter of time."

The first whip cracked against her back, and though the sound echoed, she didn't flinch. By the second month of her captivity, she had stopped feeling the pain. It was just another part of her now—like breathing, or not breathing.

Beron grew angrier with every strike that failed to elicit a reaction. "Scream! Speak! Do something!" he roared, grabbing a fistful of her golden hair, matted and filthy, and jerking her head up to meet his blazing eyes. Flames ignited in his hands, searing into her hips, but all she could manage was a faint, broken whimper.

She was too far gone to scream. Too broken to beg.

Beron's voice turned cold, venomous, and his next words froze the room. Even the guards stiffened.

"Do I have to resort to Amarantha's methods to get you to obey?"

The name hung in the air like a curse, its weight enough to suffocate her. Isarella's breath hitched, but she couldn't bring herself to believe he would go that far. He wouldn't—would he?

In the corner, Eris sat in silent torment, his hands trembling as he stared at his father with open disgust. He had thought Beron couldn't sink lower, yet here he was, proving him wrong again. Eris's every meal was laced with faebane, his strength sapped, his will crushed beneath the weight of what he was forced to witness.

He couldn't stop them. He could only watch as the whip struck again and again, as Beron's fire left fresh burns across Isarella's flesh.

But she didn't react. Not really. She just sat there, her eyes glassy and far away.