The first dawn of Isla's reign rose pale and uncertain over the capital.
The city lay beneath a blanket of mist, its towers glimmering faintly in the half-light. The banners that once bore Dante's crimson sigil had been burned, their ashes swept into the river. In their place hung white standards, the emblem of a phoenix—rebirth from ruin. Yet the silence in the streets told her the truth: peace had not yet come. It merely waited, fragile and trembling, to see if it could trust her.
From the balcony of the high chamber, Isla watched the light spread across the rooftops. The palace still smelled faintly of smoke and iron. She'd ordered half the rooms sealed—some because they were too damaged, others because she could still feel his presence there.
Behind her, Luca entered quietly. He looked better than he had in weeks; the wounds had mostly healed, but his eyes carried the same exhaustion hers did.
"You didn't sleep," he said softly.
