The wind screamed across the valley as if mourning before the dead had even fallen. The sky, once blood-red, was now an iron gray—a dull shroud that seemed to weigh on the world. The battlefield stretched endlessly, littered with bodies and broken steel.
Dante and Luca stood in the midst of it, bloodied and unyielding. Around them, the chaos dimmed, soldiers from both sides faltering, uncertain whether to fight or flee. The air itself trembled under the weight of what was about to unfold.
Isla stood between the smoking ruins of two siege carts, her face pale beneath the soot. She could see every cut across Dante's arm, every trembling breath from Luca's chest. Both men were at their limits, their strength drawn from the same poison—their need for her, their need to be right, their need to end what began long ago.
"Call your men off," Dante said, his voice low but sharp as a blade. "This doesn't concern them anymore."
