Page 47 of Breaking Isolde

Valence brings out a tape measure, circles my ribs, my waist, my hips. She clicks her tongue. “Significant improvement over the previous candidate,” she says.

“Meaning what?” I snap.

She tilts her head, considering. “You’re in better shape than your sister was. More shapely.”

Abelard laughs, a dry little cough. “Let’s not flatter. We all know she’s a replacement.”

I want to claw their eyes out. Instead I bare my teeth and say, “Maybe next time just order a robot.”

Valence smiles. “That’s the spirit.”

They turn me, back and forth, taking photos. The flash blinds me. Every click is another nail in Casey’s coffin, another way to prove I’m not her. They make me strip to my underwear for the last set, and Valence circles me with the camera, pausing at every angle.

“Arms up,” she instructs. I do it. The cold burns my skin, the exposed air eating away at what little dignity I have left.

Abelard never stops writing. “Note the shoulder structure. Wider than the sister’s, but more symmetrical. Please photograph the tattoo on the right hip.”

Valence lifts the waistband of my underwear. “Interesting placement,” she says.

I don’t dignify that with a reply.

“Please put on this gown.”

“Why?” I ask Valence.

“For the next phase or you could do it naked, if you so choose,” she says. “Physical aptitude.”

I snort. “You’re shitting me. What is this, a boot camp?”

She doesn’t answer and I slide the flimsy gown on.

They lead me to a physio room two doors down. The walls are mirrored, the floor covered in blue matting. There’s a treadmill, a rowing machine, a set of free weights, and a metal pull-up bar bolted to the ceiling. A camera is already rolling in the corner.

Abelard holds out a stopwatch. “First, ten push-ups. Full extension. No knees.”

I kneel, palms down, and go. The mat is cold and sticky, but I grind out ten, then twenty, just to show them.

He makes a checkmark.

“Rowing machine,” Valence says, sounding bored. “Five hundred meters, as fast as you can.”

I grip the handles. My hands are shaking, but I row until my lungs scream. I finish in two minutes, thirty-four seconds. Abelard nods.

Next, the treadmill. “Sprint. One minute. Level eight.”

I run. My feet slap the belt. My lungs burn.

At the end, he hands me a towel and tells me to stretch.

Valence circles, camera aimed at my legs, my ass, the sweat on my brow. “Very good, Isolde. You’ll make a strong mother.”

The words hit like a slap.

I freeze, towel halfway to my face. “What the fuck did you just say?”

She grins, slow and toothy. “It’s about breeding, dear. The Night Hunt isn’t a game. It’s a selection process.”

I look at Abelard. He’s watching me, eyes bright. “We need to ensure you’re viable for the chase and of good virtue for the ceremony. Rhett can’t afford a repeat of last year’s tragedy.”