Shattered Line

Chapter 34: The King of Gods

Isla furrowed her brow.

Sure, her desire to defend her sisters lapsed. Forgiveness remained foreign. But accepting the choice left a bitter defeat behind. Either way, she lost.

Her options translated into: die now or die alongside others. She faltered. Perhaps, her mindset would have been resolute had Rydin not died. Yet now, weakness plagued her and emotions ran rampant.

"Well?" Skye spoke, interrupting her debate.

"Fine. Take me there," she replied and stood straight, relinquishing her stance.

He approached, seizing her arm, the force jerking her off balance. She staggered forward, her face brushing against his chest before she regained her center.

Isla clamped her mouth shut. She would have loved provoking him, he deserved her annoyance more than ever. Yet, his presence would be an unfriendly but welcoming face at her future nightmarish tomb.

Without another spout, he manifested the spell. Her sight warped. Skye's irritable glass face hazed, his body's shape degrading. The whites and blues surrounding them merged. Her eyes watered and she clenched them shut.

The bruise inducing grip vanished and a mild breeze caressed her cheek, fluttering her hair. Isla revealed the landscape, basking in soft starlight.

They arrived upon a wide circular terrace, the railing a white glossy marble. She peeked over the edge. Instead of a vibrant landscape, a peerless light blue gleamed back. Irregular patches broke the color's beauty—white and fluffy.

"Elysium. The floating capital of the Gods," Skye mentioned behind her. "Let's go. He awaits."

Isla breathed deep. The fresh air cleansed the sulfur deposit but failed to strengthen her core. She leaned against the balcony, her stomach-churning. How would this meeting go? Did she hope for something, or did she fear it all?

The situation made her vulnerable. Her emotions would be exposed, they were too strong to suppress. She released a long ragged breath and pinched her thigh. Now or never.

Isla nodded to Skye and followed his lead. The terrace connected to a single corridor, the entrance shaped by tall pillars and sweeping arcs. From floor to ceiling, the design of gold against white glittered beneath the overhead natural lighting. The rays filtered through semi-transparent stained glass windows, each color bold, but oddly fitting.

The hallway forked, splitting and distorting her location. Skye maneuvered through the sections without pause, left then right. No order or pattern joined his choices. Retreat slipped further away at each turn. Still, death's potential claimed her peripheral, near but far.

Another turn and Isla's gut churned. Again, nothing. She expected life other than her own. Her hands perspired, and she wiped the stickiness onto her torn pants.

Each step forward, her heartbeat pounded louder. The rhythm increased, filling her ears, demanding she stop.

An instance, and the tumbling combined somersault within ceased. Isla's thundering heartbeat slowed. Her sweat covered palms chilled and a reassuring air of composure engulfed her.

One corner, one change of direction and a different world descended. What had happened to warrant this change? Though her mind reminded her danger remained, her instincts chose slumber. Had she been spelled?

She pushed the serenity aside and stared at the cause.

Lounging within a white stone gazebo and surrounded by a transplanted field, he rested. The supporting columns carried a crown, the insides empty, while the silverish tinted grass sparkled beneath the perforated glass ceiling.