The rain had stopped by the time Isla stepped out of the monastery. Mist hung low across the valley, curling between the cliffs like restless spirits. The air was cold and sharp, carrying the scent of wet stone and pine. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders, feeling the weight of dawn pressing down—a new day, a new burden.
Behind her, Luca emerged with a small pack slung over his back. His wounds had been hastily wrapped with linen, but he moved with the steady purpose of someone who had made peace with pain.
"You're leaving again?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Isla nodded. "The villages north of the ridge still have loyalists. People who once followed my father's banner. If I can reach them before Dante does, we'll have numbers."
He frowned. "And if they don't want to fight?"
"Then I'll remind them what happens when they don't."
