wind carried the scent of smoke before the horns began to sound.
Isla stood at the edge of the camp, the first cry of alarm echoing through the cold morning. The sky was painted red with dawn, but beneath that beauty, the earth trembled with the thunder of hooves. Dante's army had arrived.
Men scrambled from their tents, armor half fastened, weapons clattering in trembling hands. The once-organized stronghold now looked like a hive struck by fire. Fear rippled through every soldier, not because of numbers—they still outnumbered Dante's forces—but because of the name whispered with every breath.
Dante. The fallen king. The monster who returned from his own ruin.
Isla watched the chaos with a stillness that felt unnatural even to her. Every instinct screamed at her to run, to vanish before the world burned again. But she couldn't—not yet. She had built too much in the shadows, planted too many seeds that would die if she fled too soon.
