Isla furrowed her brow.

Sure, her desire to defend her sisters lapsed. Forgiveness remained foreign. But accepting the choice left a bitter defeat behind. Either way, she lost.

Her options translated into: die now or die alongside others. She faltered. Perhaps, her mindset would have been resolute had Rydin not died. Yet now, weakness plagued her and emotions ran rampant.

"Well?" Skye spoke, interrupting her debate.

"Fine. Take me there," she replied and stood straight, relinquishing her stance.

He approached, seizing her arm, the force jerking her off balance. She staggered forward, her face brushing against his chest before she regained her center.

Isla clamped her mouth shut. She would have loved provoking him, he deserved her annoyance more than ever. Yet, his presence would be an unfriendly but welcoming face at her future nightmarish tomb.

Without another spout, he manifested the spell. Her sight warped. Skye's irritable glass face hazed, his body's shape degrading. The whites and blues surrounding them merged. Her eyes watered and she clenched them shut.

The bruise inducing grip vanished and a mild breeze caressed her cheek, fluttering her hair. Isla revealed the landscape, basking in soft starlight.

They arrived upon a wide circular terrace, the railing a white glossy marble. She peeked over the edge. Instead of a vibrant landscape, a peerless light blue gleamed back. Irregular patches broke the color's beauty—white and fluffy.

"Elysium. The floating capital of the Gods," Skye mentioned behind her. "Let's go. He awaits."

Isla breathed deep. The fresh air cleansed the sulfur deposit but failed to strengthen her core. She leaned against the balcony, her stomach-churning. How would this meeting go? Did she hope for something, or did she fear it all?

The situation made her vulnerable. Her emotions would be exposed, they were too strong to suppress. She released a long ragged breath and pinched her thigh. Now or never.

Isla nodded to Skye and followed his lead. The terrace connected to a single corridor, the entrance shaped by tall pillars and sweeping arcs. From floor to ceiling, the design of gold against white glittered beneath the overhead natural lighting. The rays filtered through semi-transparent stained glass windows, each color bold, but oddly fitting.

The hallway forked, splitting and distorting her location. Skye maneuvered through the sections without pause, left then right. No order or pattern joined his choices. Retreat slipped further away at each turn. Still, death's potential claimed her peripheral, near but far.

Another turn and Isla's gut churned. Again, nothing. She expected life other than her own. Her hands perspired, and she wiped the stickiness onto her torn pants.

Each step forward, her heartbeat pounded louder. The rhythm increased, filling her ears, demanding she stop.

An instance, and the tumbling combined somersault within ceased. Isla's thundering heartbeat slowed. Her sweat covered palms chilled and a reassuring air of composure engulfed her.

One corner, one change of direction and a different world descended. What had happened to warrant this change? Though her mind reminded her danger remained, her instincts chose slumber. Had she been spelled?

She pushed the serenity aside and stared at the cause.

Lounging within a white stone gazebo and surrounded by a transplanted field, he rested. The supporting columns carried a crown, the insides empty, while the silverish tinted grass sparkled beneath the perforated glass ceiling.

She bridged the pathway, her steps strong, even and resolute. Her gaze landed upon the man and acceptance steeled.

Her father.

Unlike her sisters enthralling and luscious blonde hair, he possessed the same long translucent bordering blue like hers. Though the shade veered towards white, their connection was stark, disgustingly so. Combined with the pale skin peeking out beneath his white and gold robe, a face embellishing high cheekbones, and the truth was unmistakable.

Skye disappeared, lost beyond her vision. Without invitation, she climbed the two steps towards him, his head raised and he stared. His irises resembled snow, cold and unflinching. They shifted towards deep blue from the center.

His gaze hypnotized her, nullifying her thoughts. She forgot. What did she wish to say? Why had she accepted his invitation?

The subtle quirk of his lips into a smirk smashed his illusion of charm. This man—he bewitched her on purpose.

"Isla," Osiris droned with a delicate ear-pleasing voice. His palm closed the book he held, placing the leather-bound bundle upon the center table.

She paused her stride and her rigid stance relaxed. Why did she feel comfortable? What had he done?

He waved his hand towards the elevated cushion beside him. "Come, have a seat. You look exhausted."

She refrained from rolling her eyes. Of course, her torn clothes soaked with blood, sweat, and grime appeared distasteful in this environment. Elegance—not once had she embodied the definition, not like her sisters. Who had time for beauty and mannerisms when she spent her resources surviving. What blatant mockery.

Isla lowered herself onto the pastel purple seating and remained watchful. Their eyes connected and she controlled her turbulent glances and blinks. Instead, she endured him and fixed her stare.

"Why am I here?" Isla asked.

Osiris chuckled, yet his eyes shadowed, the light dimming. "Do I need a reason to see my daughter? Come now, there are better topics to discuss. How do you like the place? Have you dreamed of coming here?"

"I'd say yes," she retorted and tilted her head, smiling. "I've dreamed of coming here and killing you plenty."

Isla expected anger, irritation, even disdain from him for freeing the toxins on first punch. But his mouth twitched and laughter consumed him.

"We should have met earlier." Osiris leaned back, the creases edging his eyes blending back. "You and I, are much the same."

"Oh? Thanks for being clear on your dislike. This makes things easier."

"Dislike? You confuse me. When have I been rude? I've been nothing but kind and truthful."

She shrugged her shoulders. "If you call this kind and truthful, then don't evade my question. Why am I here?"

He sighed, rubbing his temple. "Not even small talk, straight to business. You must get that trait from your mother."

Isla quenched the snap her next words desired. "Tell me."

"I would like to request a deal, a compromise so to speak." He paused, looking her over. "The Arcadians are growing too strong. I have accepted their separation, kindly even, but strength fuels their arrogance. Though they are my children, I cannot accept the pain and suffering they inflict upon my blood."

His explanation reeked of manipulation. How obvious did he need to be?

"What have they done to you that you haven't done twice over on them?" Isla retorted.

"A valid question, but none too extreme. They have exaggerated the past, claiming a victim mentality. I've given them freedom and continue to keep my distance. But Isla, freedom bares weight and words have consequences. Our taxes have dwindled from the Seraphines denouncement of us and my blood—who protect the weak—are deprived."

"Then you admit your blood has inflicted harm on the Seraphines?"

"I admit the truth, nothing more. As King, how do I allow separation without sacrifice?"

Isla narrowed her gaze. This conversation was pointless. Her father would wield and craft his argument with excellent care. His conclusion amounted to: if harm had been unleashed, then both sides bore some semblance of responsibility, encouragers versus perpetrators. Valid. But one problem existed. His defense neglected her sight and her experience.

She had watched Gods massacre villages. She had experienced death by their hands. Both delivered upon innocents. How would he wangle through this thicket with his snakish tendency?

"Is that how you view hunting me? That I must accept death as payment for my mother's death?" she countered.

He clasped his hands and rectified his slouched posture. "You could say that's true."

"You're kidding," she stated and waited for more.

"Isla, the world is cruel. Think of those times as a learning experience. If I truly wanted you dead, wouldn't you be dead? In fact, rather than death." Osiris quieted and pointed at her. "You have been protected by my actions."

How hilarious did his speech need be? Did he expect a grandiose and farfetched explanation to invoke acceptance, of death? Corruption? No, this was pure madness.

"But nonetheless, it appears I've failed. They have begun to abuse your worth. The worth your mother provided in death."

"A choice I made," she retorted.

"You believe you had a choice?" Low laughter rumbled from his throat.

Isla contained her response, searching his mockery for ground. Her choice hinged upon him killing Rydin. Unless Layla had lied about her insight and ability weaknesses? Still, the clues returned further, back against Nirvana. Her story had sporadic holes.

"If that's the case, you influence my decisions as well."

"I'll always influence you, Isla. Like I've said, we are one and the same. You and I."

She clutched her thigh, digging her nails into skin. "No," Isla retorted. "I'm not like you. I don't kill for fun."

"Fun?" He quirked an eye. "When has killing one's flesh and blood ever been fun. I kill instead for fairness, to keep justice intact."

"Your justice cannot be delivered upon innocents."

Osiris waved his hand, dismissing her statement. "Isla, how long do you think I've balanced life? Do you think me an amateur who can't foresee the streams of cause and effect? Child, you forget. I am God."

What a colossal excuse. Who cares if he was a ruler, a deity, even the creator of all. He had no right to choose who lived and who died. Not even a mother had such rights.

"So?" she mocked and lifted her chin, peering downwards. "You create life with reason like all others. Only plain and simple reason can take it away."

"I am reason."

Arrogance. Nothing else described his behavior.

Her father sighed, tapping his fingertips together. "It appears I've failed."

"What?"

"You do not understand. You are still too weak and blind to us." He gazed at her, the rims of blue iris darkened to midnight.

Isla lowered her chin and watched his face. What had changed? Whom did he refer to? The Gods, or someone else?

"One last chance, Isla. Afterall, I'm kind." He smiled, but the dark clouded eyes aroused only danger. "Become Queen and put an end to Arcadia."