The morning came slowly, dragging its pale light through the cracks of the cabin walls. Isla sat by the dying fire, the warmth fading against her skin. The dagger lay beside her, cleaned of blood but still heavy with memory. The echoes of last night lingered—Dante's voice, his broken tone, the sound of the door closing behind him.
For the first time, he had truly left her.
But freedom did not feel like she imagined. It was not a sudden burst of joy or a clean breath of air. It was quiet. Trembling. Cold. Like waking from a nightmare only to realize she was still in one.
The world outside the cabin was wrapped in white. Snow stretched endlessly across the forest, and each tree bowed beneath its weight. Isla wrapped herself in her cloak, gathered what little food remained, and stepped into the silence. Her boots sank deep into the frost, each step a whisper of defiance against the past.
She did not look back at the cabin. If she did, she feared she might falter.
