The world was a jarring, upside-down nightmare. Red emergency lights pulsed against cold, black stone, the rhythm a sickening counterpoint to the howling alarms that echoed through the very bones of the fortress. Isadora hung over Caelan's shoulder, the hard ridge of his leather-clad armor digging painfully into her stomach, his blood – dark and thick – staining her cheek.
Every jarring step he took sent fresh waves of agony through her battered body, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the raw, gaping wound in her soul.
Clara.
The image of her sister's face, pale and terrified, her lips forming that silent, heartbreaking apology before she vanished into the stone, was burned onto the inside of Isadora's eyelids. I'm sorry. Sorry for what? Sorry for being caught? Sorry for not being able to escape with her? Sorry for leaving her?
A fresh wave of nausea and despair washed over Isadora. She beat her fists against Caelan's unyielding back, her blows weak, pathetic.
