I scream.
I scream not because I’m afraid, I scream because I’m a fool.
I scream because I’m angry.
I know what this is. I had thought Jax was only a Luminarie because most Essentari can only form a connection with just one element. But there are those who possess the rare ability to form a connection with two opposing elements, and the opposite of light is shadow.
Jax isn’t a Luminarie, he’s an Umbraluminar, a shadow and light hybrid.
Which means my original assessment of him had been wrong, so very wrong,and there are two sides to the man who locked me in this room.
Which one had given me his promises?
Which one had told me I would be safe?
Shadow wielders are known to be dangerous, manipulative, andfull of secrets.The opposite of light wielders in every way.
How someone can harness both elements, displaying the qualities of each, has never made sense to me.
But I know one thing for certain, Umbraluminars are the most feared of the Essentari, the most unpredictable, andI truly am a fool.
I scream again, but the voice on the other side of the door, the one who was calling out to Jax, simply ignores me. My screams don’t even cause her to pause or question who I am.
She can’t hear me. The shadow is concealing every sound I make. Swallowing it up, swallowingmeup, as if I’m not even here, as if I don’t even exist.
I am trapped.
I am a prisoner.
No one knows where I am.
No one will ever know what happens to me.
And it’s all my fault.
I close my eyes, trying to regain control of my emotions. When I open them again, the shadows are gone. I let out a slow, long breath and move from the door to explore the room.
Because what else am I to do?
It’s a nice room. A lovely room. But a prison, nonetheless.
It’s well lit with many bulbs. The electricity—that shouldn’t exist—makes it easy to see. Bulbs are in the ceiling, protected by colored blue glass, covering everything in a peaceful hue.
A bed is pushed against the wall with a pretty white canopy surrounding it. The fabric flows to the floor, a floor covered in uneven cobblestones.
There’s a mirror in the corner that I refuse to look at and a wooden dresser next to it, full of men’s clothing. Tunics that are far too large for me and breeches that will never fit, but I sniff them, and they smell clean.
I, however, do not smell clean.
For a moment, I wonder who the clothes belong to, but I smell myself again and decide I do not care.
Pulling the blouse I’ve been wearing over my head, I drop my pants to the ground. I grab one of the beige tunics and slide my arms through the sleeves. It’s soft and warm. It reaches my lower thighs, but I’m comfortable.
I walk to the wall opposite the dresser to where a large mahogany desk sits. It’s nice. Very nice. Sturdy with carvings up and down the legs, but the top is smooth.
Books lay scattered across it. Books about the history of the trials, and suddenly, I feel sick. I shove the books in one of the drawers, jamming them in so the drawer barely closes, but it does close, and I’m glad because I don’t want to look at them.
There’s a painting on one of the walls. It touches the ceiling, then drops to the floor. It’s of the ocean. Eerily similar to the exact viewI awoke to this morning.
