The road north was carved through silence and memory. Mist rolled low over the ground, curling around broken fences and the skeletons of trees burned long ago. Each step forward felt like walking back into a nightmare Isla had spent years trying to forget.
Jonas led the way, his rifle slung across his back, eyes sharp as the path narrowed between two cliffs. Rhea followed behind him, quiet but watchful, her hand always near the knife at her belt. Isla walked in the middle, her breath misting in the cold morning air, her thoughts heavy with the weight of what awaited them in Verran.
For hours, no one spoke. Only the crunch of boots against gravel filled the air. Finally, Rhea broke the silence.
"You really think he'll be there?" she asked, her voice low but certain.
Isla's fingers tightened around the strap of her satchel. "If Dante's rebuilding, he'll go back to where it all started. He always believed power came from blood spilled on old ground."
