At Mount Etna, Alaric, Jethru, and the Norse siblings stood with the others at the cliff's edge, staring at the ruins of what had once been a bridge. Only shredded ropes swayed in the updraft, frayed, and ghostly, dangling over the abyss where wooden planks had long since vanished into the raging fury below.
Jethru crouched, his fingers tracing the severed ends of the rope. His eyes narrowed, the gleam of calculation reflecting in their depths.
"This was no accident," he murmured. "The cut was clean—made by a dagger honed to perfection. The distance across…" He measured with his gaze, thoughtful. "It was calculated precisely, that whoever cut the bridge could jump to safety. Only someone with both skill and brilliance could have done this."
A brief silence followed. Then resonating voices, different, yet united by pride broke the air.
"Lara."
"My daughter."
"Sister."
