The first flames appeared at dawn.
From the eastern ridges, black smoke curled into the sky like dark ribbons, twisting in the wind. Isla stood on the ramparts, her cloak billowing, eyes fixed on the distant glow. The fortress behind her had already begun to stir—bells ringing, messengers shouting, soldiers pouring into formation like ripples of living steel.
"Another outpost?" Luca asked as he joined her, his expression grim.
"Not just one," Isla murmured, her gaze unblinking. "That smoke is from the far watch and the valley garrison. He's moving faster than I thought."
Luca's hands clenched at his sides. "Then it's war."
Isla didn't answer. She already knew it was. The rhythm of destruction was too deliberate, too precise. Dante wasn't just attacking her borders—he was reminding her how well he knew her defenses. Every strike was personal. Every flame was a whisper from the past saying, I remember everything you built… and I can unmake it.
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