Syn shivered, a chill creeping up his spine.
He knew Ila's ruthlessness, her disregard for lives she deemed worthless.
"Bad things" could mean anything—torture, executions, etc.
He didn't dare ask, didn't want to know the depths of her darkness. His silence urged her to continue, his heart pounding as he braced for more.
"Ila…" he started, but she cut him off, her voice rising, desperate.
"It vanished, Syn. That joy—it was rare, and I didn't know until it was gone. I got so angry, so lost, I wanted to burn everything down." She gestured around them, her eyes wild.
"This glade? I torched it after you left. Burned it to ash in a fit of rage. But I rebuilt it, every blade of grass, every tree, because I wanted to make things right."
Syn's eyes widened, glancing around in shock.
She was right—the grass was too perfect, the trees too pristine, the air too clean.
It was all new, a recreation of their past.
