Dead silence.
Not the dramatic, thunder-in-the-distance kind.
The internal, brain-rotting, soul-clogging kind.
Because Isabella sat there in her tent — arms folded, jaw clenched, entire aura vibrating like a pressure cooker about to explode — and she absolutely, violently refused to admit the truth:
Osiris had ruined her brain.
And not in the fun, "haha I'm giggling and kicking my feet" way.
No.
In the "why the HELL did that oversized phoenix with negative IQ mention tears and make me think of Cyrus at a time like THIS" way.
She lay there on her back, starfish-mode, staring up at the ceiling like it personally betrayed her.
Glimora sat beside her, quietly nibbling a biscuit, watching her human spiral like this was her nightly Netflix show.
Isabella inhaled sharply.
Then exhaled with enough force to propel her soul out of her body.
She rolled to her side.
Then rolled to her back.
Then sat up.
Then fell back.
Then sat up again.
Then lay down.
Then sat up.
