The wind that swept through the northern valley carried the scent of burnt wood and iron. The fog was so thick that even the sound of marching boots seemed to vanish into it. Isla rode at the front of her army, her cloak brushing against her horse's flank, her face cold and unreadable.
For days, they had followed a trail of silence. Every abandoned camp bore the same mark — the black wolf biting through a chain — painted in ashes, mocking her with the memory of what she once endured. Each time she saw it, the same words returned to her mind like a curse. *They will never follow you. Only what I left behind.*
But this time, she didn't let them sting. She was done being haunted by his voice.
At dusk, they reached the ruins of a fortress half-swallowed by the mountain. The stones were blackened by fire, the air thick with the smell of old battles. Mara approached her side, scanning the walls. "It's empty," she said softly. "Too empty."
