Light of the Dawn

23. We have to talk about it

Azriel sat in the chair beside Isarella's bed, his fingers endlessly brushing over the back of her hand, as if the simple act could anchor her to him. Shadows curled around him like living entities, restless and watchful. His body ached with exhaustion, but the thought of leaving her—even for a moment—was unthinkable.

He hadn't let go of her since the moment she opened her eyes, terrified that if he loosened his grip, she'd vanish, and all of this would prove to be a cruel dream.

Isarella stirred slightly, her pale face turning toward him. Her body was still frail, her movements slow as though every breath was a battle. But her green eyes, even dulled with pain, held that same light he had feared was extinguished forever.

"You're still here," she murmured, her voice hoarse but laced with warmth.

Azriel leaned forward, his calloused fingers tightening around hers. "I'm not going anywhere, Isa. Not now. Not ever."

A faint smile graced her lips before a knock at the door interrupted them. The Inner Circle entered, their faces drawn with concern and lingering anger. Rhys, Feyre, Cassian, Nesta, and Mor moved quietly into the room, each taking a seat or leaning against the walls. Their eyes darted between Isarella's frail form and Azriel's haunted expression.

"Sorry to interrupt," Rhys said softly, his voice unusually subdued. "But we need to know what happened. What Beron wanted. It might be the only way we can stop him from doing this again."

Isarella exhaled shakily, her hand tightening weakly in Azriel's. He gave her a reassuring nod, his thumb brushing over her knuckles in steady circles.

Taking a deep breath, she began. "He wanted the Dread Troves," she said, her voice steadying as she spoke. "And he wanted a way to take you down, Rhysand. He thought if he could weaken you, cripple the Night Court, the other High Lords would rally to his side. He was...obsessed with the idea of dominating Prythian."

Rhys's jaw clenched, his violet eyes darkening with fury. Feyre rested a calming hand on his arm but said nothing, her face pale and taut.

Isarella continued, her voice trembling as she relived the horrors. "He used iron laced with dark magic. The whips, the chains, even the air in that dungeon was filled with symbols and spells to keep my power weak. I couldn't fight back, no matter how hard I tried." Her breath hitched, and Azriel leaned closer, his shadows whispering soothingly around her.

"I was tortured, daily" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Beaten, whipped, broken. Every time I thought I couldn't endure more, he found a way to hurt me again. I knew...I knew they'd kill me eventually. And I was ready. I was ready to sacrifice myself, to end it all, when Beron came to me."

Her eyes glazed over as she stared into the distance, reliving the nightmare. "He told me he'd found a collar," she said. "A collar that would strip me of my will. He said he'd use it to turn me into his weapon, his slave. And I... I couldn't bear the thought of it. Of being used against you, against my family. I was prepared to..."

Her voice faltered, and Azriel's hand tightened around hers, grounding her. She turned to him, tears brimming in her eyes. "I was going to take my own life, Az. I couldn't let him win. I couldn't let him use me."

Cassian stiffened, his fists clenched at his sides as his wings flared slightly. Nesta placed a hand on his arm, her steel-gray eyes glittering with unshed tears.

Azriel's face was a mask of pain as he rubbed her hand, his touch more gentle than ever. "Isa," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "He never had a collar. It was a lie. We made it up to draw him out, to get him away from his defenses so we could find you."