Morning came slow and gray, the kind of light that barely touched the earth. Isla woke before the villagers did, her body aching from the damp cold and restless dreams. The air smelled of smoke and metal — old ghosts that refused to leave. She sat up and saw Jonas still awake, sitting near the door with his back against the wall, eyes red from a night without sleep.
He looked like a shadow of himself — worn, restless, and still alert. His rifle lay across his lap, his hand resting lightly on the stock.
"You didn't sleep," she said quietly.
He didn't look at her. "Didn't need to."
"Jonas," she murmured, "that's not true."
He exhaled slowly, gaze fixed on the window. "You dream loud when you're trying not to."
She froze, heat creeping up her neck. "I—what does that mean?"
He finally turned to her. "You talk in your sleep. Names. Places. Sometimes his."
The name wasn't spoken, but it didn't need to be. *Dante.*
Her chest tightened. "Then stop listening."
