The fires had stopped burning by morning. What remained of Verran was a graveyard of blackened stone and drifting smoke, the scent of death clinging to every breath of wind. Silence stretched across the ruins, too thick and heavy to be peace.
Isla stood on the balcony of what was once Dante's fortress, wrapped in a cloak that did nothing to stop the chill. The city below her was unrecognizable. Streets that had once echoed with soldiers' boots were now nothing but rubble and ash. She could still see where the cathedral had stood—a jagged skeleton against the rising sun.
She told herself it was over.
But her heart didn't believe it.
