The forest swallowed Isla whole.
The snow-laden branches bent low, heavy with ice and silence. Every step she took sank deep into the white, muffling her movements. Her breath came in ragged clouds as she pressed forward, one trembling hand against her stomach, the other clutching her dagger. Behind her, the storm had begun to ease—soft flakes drifting lazily through the air like ghosts returning to their graves.
She didn't dare stop. Not yet.
The last of Dante's shouts had faded into the distance, but the echo of them still lived inside her chest. His voice had not sounded like the general she'd once feared, nor the man who had broken her. It had sounded torn—half command, half plea. And that was worse. Because it meant he still wanted her, not just as a fugitive, but as the piece of himself he couldn't control.
