My Sister's a Guardian (RotG Fanfiction)

Chapter 8: The Curses of Windshallow

(Content/trigger warnings for this chapter: anxiety, children in peril)

**Isabelle**

When the Time Rift fizzled out and Ranya turned and stumbled upstairs, I simply stood there.

"Lotus?" I called again, though as I had assumed, I didn't get a response. My heart continued to pound; what had they wanted to warn me about this time?

Tooth put a hand on my shoulder. "Who was that?"

I told the Guardians about Lotus, what they had told me this morning.

Bunny narrowed his eyes. "Can you even trust them? Who are they, and why do they care about warning you?"

"They seem nice so far," said Tooth.

"But how did they know what was happening? Are they working with Pitch? People can't warn others in the past like that. I made sure of that years ago." Bunny's gaze darted to the dining room window, and his eyes widened. "What's wrong with the Moon?"

"It just appears that way in Windshallow," said Mom, rising from her chair. She set Zachary on the ground. "The mist, the shimmering air, the disappearing objects, the dilapidated school buildings, the people knowing things they've never seen, the purple water and Moon—all part of Windshallow. People consider Isabelle one of its mysteries as well."

Golden symbols glittered and flitted above Sandy's head.

"Sandy says Windshallow has a powerful aura," North translated.

My heart pounded. "Is that bad?"

More symbols fluttered above Sandy.

"It's too early to tell," North said. "We would need more information, and we don't have time for that now. We need to plan." He said more words, but all sound slipped from the world like water down a drain. I could no longer feel the floor beneath me. My heart pounded harder as my sight darkened, beginning in the corners and encroaching inward. What always happened before a vision.

The first thing that came to me was the smell of smoke spilling in from everywhere. Then the ground under my feet, not so solid as crumbly. Hot, sharp edges dug into my bare soles.

The world sprawled in front of me. Not a house, building, or beam remained standing; they were all debris and split chunks of white and blue stone. Fires shot into the sky in the distance, black ash spilling from their spires.

What was most prominent, however, was the screaming.

With my usual enhanced senses in my vision, I could hear that it come from exactly 258 people, varying pitches and lengths and fiercenesses, figures scattered about the landscape. Some were children, and those screams were cut short. I could barely make out their figures in the distance, but when their screams stopped in their throats, their bodies elongated into shadows with gaping holes for eyes. They streaked into the air like curls of ink. Fearlings, Pitch's minions from the books. My heart pounded to the point where each rapid beat would shake me if I could've moved. I couldn't move in visions. I tried to desperately force myself back to the present, think of my dining room: the wooden floor dull under the light, chairs scraping against it as they were shoved back.

One figure formed in the center of the vision's wreckage. He wore a uniform of rich black fabric wrapped around him and gold buttons running down the front. His skin was an ashen gray, as if he were a ghost. His black hair was slicked away from his face, and his eyes reminded me of a solar eclipse—yellow flaring out around a black center. Pitch. I could see each individual pore on his skin. I tried to scream, but my mouth wouldn't move. I tried to think harder of home, the smooth glass table reflecting light in sparks and the stiff pink chairs, the worn carpet in the living room that tickled my feet—