Suspicions Mount
The next morning, Isla stormed into the central hall, the letters gripped tightly in her hand. The tension in her chest felt like a coiled spring ready to snap. Eira sat at the long table, her posture elegant as she sipped from a delicate cup of tea. The older woman raised a brow at Isla’s abrupt entrance, her serene demeanor unshaken.
“What are these?” Isla demanded, her voice sharp as she held the letters aloft.
Eira placed her cup down gently, her silver eyes meeting Isla’s with calm precision. “Good morning to you too, Isla,” she said evenly. “What seems to be the problem?”
“These,” Isla repeated, stepping closer and dropping the letters onto the table. “What are they? They speak of sacrifices and power, and they were hidden in your tent. What aren’t you telling me?”
Eira glanced at the scattered letters, her expression unreadable. “Private correspondence with allies,” she replied smoothly. “Nothing that concerns you.”
Isla’s fists clenched, her silver eyes blazing. “They talk about sacrifices,” she pressed, her voice trembling with anger. “And legacies. What do you know about my mother’s death?”
For the first time, a flicker of something crossed Eira’s face—annoyance or caution—but it was gone as quickly as it came. She stood, her movements fluid as she approached Isla.
“You’ve been through unimaginable pain,” Eira said, her tone soft but firm. “Pain clouds the mind. It makes you see things that aren’t there. Your visions—they weren’t real. They were the product of your suffering.”
“I don’t believe you,” Isla snapped, taking a step back. Her voice rose, her composure cracking under the weight of her emotions. “I saw you! In my vision, you were there. You didn’t try to stop him—you let it happen!”
Eira’s gaze turned colder, her silver eyes narrowing slightly. “You were in agony, Isla. Your mind conjured something to make sense of your fear. Do not let these phantoms distract you from what truly matters—your children.”
The words struck Isla like a blow, the reminder of her missing twins twisting the knife of her doubt. But even as her anger faltered, her instincts screamed that Eira was lying. The calm in her voice, the way she deflected, only deepened Isla’s conviction.
As Eira turned and walked away, Isla’s grip tightened on the letters. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she watched the woman’s retreating figure.
Eira was hiding something—Isla was certain of it. But how could she prove it?
