The dawn came pale and cold over the citadel, washing the city below in muted gold. Bells tolled somewhere in the distance, their sound faint beneath the murmuring wind. Isla had not slept.
She stood before the same mirror that had haunted her hours ago, the silvered glass now veiled by a white sheet. She could not bear to see what might look back at her. The chamber smelled faintly of smoke. The embers from last night still glowed in the hearth, flickering like eyes that refused to die.
Luca entered quietly. His armor was half-buckled, his face drawn from another sleepless night. "The council's waiting," he said softly. "They heard the guards talking. About… what happened."
Isla turned to him, her voice tired but sharp. "And what did they hear, exactly?"
"That you screamed," he said. "That the fire answered you. Some of the servants are saying Dante's ghost has returned."
Her lips tightened. "Ghosts don't return, Luca. The living just refuse to let them go."
