The sky broke open with thunder the morning Dante moved.
For weeks, his scouts had whispered of Isla's victory in the north, of her name being spoken with reverence in towns that once bowed to him. *The Flame of the North*, they called her—a woman reborn in rebellion, fierce and untouchable. But Dante did not hear praise. He heard betrayal spreading like wildfire.
He stood at the balcony of his fortress, rain streaking across his armor. The city below was drowned in mist, its towers like grave markers in the gray dawn. Behind him, his generals waited, silent and tense.
"Send the order," Dante said at last. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of death. "Burn the northern supply towns. Every one that swore loyalty to her. Leave nothing standing."
No one moved at first. Then one man—a veteran with scarred hands—stepped forward. "My lord, there are civilians there. Families. Children—"
