Isolde's POV
Death should have been the end of me. I remembered the blade entering my heart, the taste of blood in my mouth, the world going dark. But witches like me don't die easy.
I opened my eyes to find myself in a cave, surrounded by black lights. My body felt wrong—hollow, like a paper doll. When I tried to move, pain shot through me like lightning.
"Easy," said a voice from the dark. "The spell barely worked. You're alive, but just barely."
A figure stepped into the candlelight—a young witch with eyes too old for her face. One of my friends from long ago.
"Mara," I whispered, my voice scraping like dry leaves. "How long?"
"Six weeks since the battle," she said, helping me sit up. "Everyone thinks you're dead. The Black Moon Witch, finally defeated."
I laughed, which changed into a cough that brought up black blood. "Not defeated. Just... resting."
