The night swallowed her as she ran. Smoke and ash clung to Isla's skin, painting her in the ruins of Verran's fall. Behind her, Jonas shouted her name, his voice rough with desperation. Rhea cursed and tried to follow, but the roar of fire drowned them both. Isla didn't look back.
Every step burned. Her lungs felt carved from smoke, her throat raw with the taste of death. But still she ran, back toward the city that had once been her cage, her battlefield, her nightmare. The glow of fire on the horizon was like a second sunrise, painting the sky in shades of red and ruin.
She should have kept running. She should have chosen freedom.
But freedom, she realized, would never truly exist while Dante still drew breath.
The closer she got to the city, the worse the devastation became. Buildings lay in heaps of blackened stone. Bodies covered the streets like fallen shadows. The scent of blood and smoke tangled together in the air until it was impossible to breathe without tasting both.
