The air at the Southern Rim was thick with the smell of sulfur and ancient, rotting earth. It was a place where the sun felt cold, and the wind carried the echoes of a thousand broken spirits. Isla felt a heavy shove between her shoulder blades, stumbling forward as she was forced through the rusted iron maw of the primary shaft.
"Look what we have here, guys. Another new criminal," one of the guards sneered, his voice rattling with a smoker’s cough. He wore a patched uniform that smelled of grease and cruelty.
Isla’s head snapped up, her eyes flashing with a spark of the fire that Rowan and the Vances hadn't managed to extinguish yet. "I am not a criminal," she bit out, her voice echoing off the damp stone walls.
The guards erupted into a chorus of jagged, mocking laughter. It was a so
