The dawn came blood-red. A haze of smoke clung to the valley as if the world itself was holding its breath. Isla stood on the ridge, watching the horizon flicker with faint orange light—the distant villages where the first clashes had begun. Below her, the camp stirred awake. Soldiers laced their boots, checked blades, and murmured quiet prayers.
Every sound carried weight now. Every breath reminded them that war was no longer a whisper—it was here.
Luca approached from behind, his cloak snapping in the cold wind. "Scouts returned," he said. "Dante's vanguard is three leagues east, marching through the Iron Road. They're burning as they go."
Isla's jaw tightened. "How many?"
"Five hundred, maybe more. They're moving fast."
She nodded, eyes scanning the misty slopes below. "He's testing us. He wants to see if I'll meet him head-on."
Luca frowned. "And will you?"
"No," she said. "Not yet. He expects fire. We'll give him silence."
