The letter came at dawn.
It was sealed in black wax and left at the edge of Isla's tent, where the early fog still clung to the grass. No one saw who placed it there. No messenger, no sound. Only the chill that crept through the camp before the sun touched the earth.
She stared at it for a long time before touching it. The wax bore Dante's insignia — the wolf's head biting through a chain. The mark she had once worn against her skin, the mark she had sworn to destroy. Her hands trembled, not with fear, but with the memory of him. The smell of smoke and iron returned like a ghost.
When she broke the seal, the scent of ink and whiskey rose faintly from the paper.
> *My Isla,*
>
> *You have built your own kingdom now, but it still breathes with my lessons. You rule with my fire, speak with my teeth. Do not think I cannot see you — or that you are free from me. Freedom is an illusion for those who still dream of revenge.*
>
