The sun rose pale and uncertain, barely cutting through the mist that wrapped the hills. The world looked fragile after the storm, as if one wrong breath might break it. Isla walked ahead of Jonas, her steps careful but firm, the hem of her damp clothes dragging through the grass. Each step was a reminder that she had survived another night, another war, another version of hell. But survival no longer felt like enough.
The silence between them had shifted. It was not peace. It was tension, thick and quiet, a truce made out of necessity rather than trust. Jonas moved behind her, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his gaze scanning the horizon. Every sound made him twitch—every rustle of leaves, every call of a crow.
By the time they reached the outskirts of a ruined village, the fog had begun to lift. Smoke curled from the remains of burned houses, and the faint smell of iron and ash hung in the air. The world here still bore the scars of Dante's reach.
