The storm of Dante's rage had begun long before his enemies saw it coming. It started in silence, in the long nights when he sat alone in his study staring at the empty chair across from him. The air carried her scent still, faint and cruelly persistent, like a ghost reminding him that love had turned into exile.
The wine in his glass went untouched. His mind was far too restless for drink. Every courier brought bad news—supplies intercepted, men defecting, whispers of villages abandoning his name. But none of it mattered compared to the hollow absence that haunted him.
He had built an empire with violence, but it was her defiance that now consumed him.
Dante slammed his fist on the desk, the sound echoing through the dimly lit room. The guards at the door stiffened but said nothing. They had learned that his silence was more dangerous than his anger.
"Bring me the reports," he ordered coldly. "Every man who left without permission. Every shipment we lost. I want names."
