The morning light spread over the camp like a bruise, pale and cold. Smoke from distant fires drifted low across the valley, softening the outlines of tents and steel. Isla stood at the edge of the command tent, the wind tugging at her cloak, her eyes fixed on the horizon where Dante's banners once flew. Now, the same banners burned in the distance, a reminder that empires could die, and love could too.
She had not slept. Sleep had become a luxury since she took command. Each night her dreams came heavy with echoes of his voice, words he had spoken in anger, in longing, in ruin. She hated that she could still hear him. She hated more that a part of her still understood him.
