The home had grown darker in recent times, not due to the lights being not so bright, but due to sadness filling up each room. The war with Luca was closer than far-off rumors. It was knocking on their door, soaking into the walls, gleaming in the eyes of the men bearing news in the corridors. Increasing numbers of dead bodies day by day. Lost alliances. Streets were red.
Dante had settled into planning, his head ablaze with maps, documents, and wordless messages conveyed covertly in the dark of night. He paced the war room for hours, noting, commanding, downing barely a half the food before him. Even when Isla came, he was intent on the table, his hand following the changing contours of land. She was used to their silence, but now it was painful. He did not think of her as his weapon, his shield, or even his prisoner. He looked past her, as if she were just a piece of furniture.
