The world after the fire was quiet. Too quiet.
Smoke still clung to the sky, painting it a dull gray that never seemed to clear. The river had carried the dead downstream, leaving the shore littered with ashes and shattered steel. In that silence, Isla stood barefoot on the wet earth, her cloak torn, her body trembling but alive.
She should have felt victory. She had survived when so many had not. But all she could feel was the heavy pulse of loss. The war had taken everything—her home, her peace, and the man who once made her believe love could exist in darkness.
"Dante…" she whispered to the wind, though she didn't know if it was a plea or a curse.
There was no answer. Only the whisper of the river and the faint crackle of burning wood somewhere far away.
Behind her, Luca approached quietly, limping, his armor dented and streaked with soot. His men trailed behind him, fewer than before. The rebellion had survived, but just barely.
