The forest stretched out behind her like a living thing, full of secrets and eyes. Isla did not look back. The river guided her steps, its quiet current whispering over smooth stones, pulling her farther from everything she once knew. Her cloak was torn, her boots soaked through, but her will refused to break.
The morning light filtered through the trees, painting her in soft gold. For a moment, it almost felt peaceful—almost. Then the wind shifted, carrying a sound that didn't belong to the forest. Hooves. Distant, but growing closer.
Her pulse quickened. She slipped off the path and ducked behind a cluster of rocks, crouching low as the noise drew nearer. Through the branches, she caught sight of two riders. Their coats were black, marked with the crest that had haunted her dreams. Dante's men.
She pressed her hand against her mouth, forcing her breath to quiet. The horses slowed, the riders scanning the trees. One of them dismounted, studying the ground.
