The morning air was cold enough to bite. Mist rolled through the valley like restless spirits, wrapping the fortress in silver haze. Isla stood at the highest balcony, watching the land stretch beneath her. She could hear the faint clang of soldiers training in the courtyard below, the rhythm steady, precise. Yet her thoughts wandered far from drills and discipline.
For days, the rumors had refused to die. Each messenger brought new fragments—sightings, whispers, bloody footprints that seemed to lead nowhere. But the message carved at the southern outpost haunted her most. That single word—Mine—echoed in her mind like a curse.
She gripped the stone railing, her knuckles white. The wind tangled her hair, carrying the scent of rain and smoke.
Behind her, footsteps approached. She did not turn.
Luca stopped a few paces away. "You have not slept," he said.
"I cannot," she replied softly. "He will not let me."
"You do not even know if it is him."
