“Prove yourself, then,” Adrian said. “Find the witch. You have five days.” Adrian’s words were like a blow to my stomach, and for one horrifying moment, I could not breathe. It was as if my lungs were full of smoke and my throat clogged with ash. I felt the fire against my skin; I could smell my burning flesh and hair. I could not fathom that he would allow such a man to remain within our kingdom, so near to me—me, his lover, his wife, the one who had died at the hand of Dragos, the first witch-hunter. I fled, leaving him on the dais alone.
Isolde is so irrational sometimes.
