The morning broke crimson. The valley below was veiled in fog, but beneath that gray curtain, Isla could feel movement. The earth trembled faintly beneath her boots, the rhythm of hundreds of feet marching as one. From her vantage on the ridge, she saw the faint shimmer of steel catching the first light of dawn. Dante had come.
Her pulse thudded in her ears, a steady drum of disbelief and fury. For days she had tried to convince herself the letter was a trick, another ghost from the past. But ghosts did not march with armies.
Rhea appeared beside her, her eyes narrowed. "The scouts confirmed it. It's him. He's leading them himself."
Isla kept her gaze fixed on the fog. "How many?"
"Two thousand at least," Rhea said. "They move fast, but they're not at full strength."
"He never needs full strength," Isla murmured. "He just needs fear."
