Shattered Line

Chapter 17: A Bitter Reality

Indifferent. Heartless. Cold. This defined Isla's interactions with people, or it had.

At this moment, she regretted her change. The warmth seeped from her bones, much like Rydin's ever chilling body. His movements ended, mimicking her own incapacitated state. The situation was authentic but lacked comprehension.

How did this happen? The question repeated, unending and restless.

Nothing made sense—neither his death nor Rein's betrayal. Everything felt empty.

A serene voice pervaded the void, evading her cyclic thoughts. At first, the voice was low and distant like a zephyr's whisper. Yet, the velvet laced tone entwined the strands of sound, blooming into a word—Isla.

She swung her head around, searching for the allure. Her gaze omitted the white plated guards swarming her position. Where was the source? Who beckoned her like early morning honeydew glazed with laudanum? A taste so divine, even Kings begged and pleaded for a sample.

Yet, the origin of sweet temptation was a woman who sullied her history. Her sister.

Layla rushed towards her fallen form, scooping her throbbing head into her lap. "Oh, Isla. Are you okay? Where does it hurt?"

Isla stared at the unshed tears glistening at the corners of Layla's eyes. A single push and they would stream from her crystal blues, bruising her cheeks. The wetness would sharpen her rose-tinted skin, creating the perfect persona of a disheartened loving sister.

Her mind argued against movement, but her heart surged into action. This sight evoked a weakness, one growing deeper and thicker roots by the minute. Still, her quick reaction plucked their sprouts, severing the ends.

She lurched forward, away from her sister. Yet, Layla remained steadfast, refusing to cede her fictitious protection. Her body plummeted back into her sister's lap.

"Let me go," Isla said, her voice hoarse and rough.

Another surge and she broke free. Isla folded onto her knees, her body lethargic, but compliant. She curled her fingers, the connection from mind to body renewed. The spell Skye placed over her became a figment of her imagination.

But her imagination failed to conceal her reality. Rydin was dead.

A searing heat burned her shoulder, radiating through her cloak's fabric. The warmth spread throughout, neutralizing the frigid chill she ignored. Oddly, the gesture rejuvenated her body, filling the hollowness of regret. Her unconscious action of repressing her emotions became weak and stupid. What reason did she have to fear herself? Why must she cower and run, like a beaten and abused beast?

No—she wasn't wrong. He was wrong.

She stared at the heat's source. The long, slender fingers with polished, clear, white nails. Her gaze lifted to Layla's frowning face as she kneeled beside her.

"Isla?"

"I'm fine." Her voice surmounted the prior fragility with strength and clarity.

"Oh, Isla. You don't look fine. Let me help you up." Layla grasped her hands, yanking her body. A miraculous display with her thin arms brought Isla to her feet. "Come, let us find a quiet room."

She recoiled against her pull, protesting at her sister's lead. But resistance was futile. Though she recovered from the entrapment spell, her body was exhausted. Her perseverance crumbled and Isla accepted her fate.

Layla tugged Isla's arm and her feet followed along, much like a wooden marionette, her conscious was lost. The world swarmed as darkness seeped into focus. For once, she abstained from thought.