The king of Ashes
Isabella was trembling, her body pressed against mine, and I could feel the cold dread rolling off of her, a mirror of the cold, hard knot in my own stomach.
Together.
My hand, steady and sure, reached out and broke the old, brittle wax seal, the small cracking sound echoing in the quiet room. I unwrapped the oilskin, revealing a thick, black, leather-bound book, its cover worn and its pages yellowed with age, but it was perfectly preserved. It was not just a book, it was a tomb, a record of sins I was not sure I was ready to read.
Tucked just inside the cover, I saw a folded, yellowed piece of paper, and on the front, written in a strong, elegant script, was a single word: Isabella.
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