Dawn crept over the valley like a hesitant breath. The fog clung to the earth in pale ribbons, muffling every sound except the steady rhythm of Isla's footsteps. She walked with her cloak drawn tight around her shoulders, her hand pressed protectively against her stomach. Each step carried both exhaustion and determination, the stubborn heartbeat of someone who refused to surrender.
Behind her, the town was already waking. The faint smell of bread drifted from chimneys, mingling with the smoke of early fires. She did not look back. The memory of Jonas's warning still echoed in her head. *Dante is closer than you think.*
The path wound through a field of frost-bitten grass, then into a stretch of dense woods. Jonas had given no directions, no map. Only a promise that someone would find her if she reached the ridge by nightfall. It was a fragile thread to follow, but it was all she had.
