The dawn after the storm felt wrong.
Too quiet, too still, as if the world was holding its breath.
The wind carried the faint scent of ash as Isla and Luca descended the charred slopes of the Cinder Mountains. Every step crunched over brittle stone that once burned bright. The sky above was washed pale, a thin smear of gold on gray, and yet, beneath that fragile light, Isla felt the pulse of something alive — something inside her.
Each beat of her heart was followed by a whisper of heat under her skin. The ring was gone, melted into her veins. The fire that once belonged to Dante now flickered behind her eyes.
Luca walked close, his gaze sweeping the landscape with wary precision. His sword arm was bandaged, his face streaked with soot, but his attention never drifted far from her. He had seen what she did — the light, the flames, the collapse — and though he hadn't said it, she could feel his fear.
"You should rest," he said quietly.
