The darkness in the cell was a living thing. It was cold and damp and absolute, a physical weight that pressed in on Isadora from all sides. The totality of the betrayal was a fresh, gaping wound in her soul. Orrenai. His kind eyes, his reassuring smile, his strong hand pulling her from the fire—it had all been a lie. A beautiful, masterful, soul-destroying lie.
She was alone. Nameless. A ghost in a stone box, erased from the world.
She did not know how long she sat there, huddled in the dark, her mind a chaotic ruin of grief and self-recrimination. Time had no meaning in this place.
Eventually, the sound of a heavy bolt being thrown echoed from the other side of the iron door. The door groaned open, spilling a harsh, crimson torchlight into her cell. Two hulking vampire guards stood in the doorway, their faces pale and cruel, their eyes holding a dead, ancient emptiness.
