The war room was heavy with the smell of ink and metal. Maps were spread out on the massive wooden table, held down by knives and mugs of old wine. The candles threw fluttering shadows on the paper, casting shadows that looked like armies advancing across hills and rivers. The air was heavy with tension from men who had spent days figuring out how to kill and live.
For the first time, Isla stood with them.
Dante had brought her out of nowhere, unmoved by the stunned faces and wary glances of his leaders. He had sat down at the head of the table, quiet until the others grew still, then motioned her to stay at his side. He did not offer explanation, or excuse. His will was enough command.
She clasped her hands together before her, reminding herself to remain calm. But when she gazed at the charts, something within her woke up. She didn't see the lines and the shapes, but the story that they told, men in motion and blood, the finely balanced thing that could tip with one false step.
