The storm that had drowned the land for days had finally broken, leaving the sky pale and hollow. Yet within the fortress walls, the air remained thick with unease. Every torch burned low, every whisper lingered longer than it should have. The war was over, but peace felt fragile—like a thread stretched too tight, waiting to snap.
Isla could feel it. The shift. The silence that was not calm but watchful.
In the early morning, she walked through the courtyard where the soldiers were rebuilding. The scent of wet earth clung to the air. Broken weapons had been gathered into a single pile, waiting to be melted down for tools. The men worked quietly, their eyes flickering to her whenever she passed. Some bowed. Others simply stared. She could not tell if it was respect or fear.
She had learned long ago that the two often looked the same.
"Lady Isla."
