The rain had not stopped. It fell like shards of glass against the forest canopy, soaking Isla to the bone as she guided her horse through the narrow, mud-slick path. Every hoofstep sank deep, every breath came with strain. Behind her, the faint glow of the fires still burned in the distance, marking the grave of another village Dante had erased in fury.
Luca rode beside her, his expression drawn tight. The men following them were silent, their eyes hollow, their loyalty forged now from fear more than faith. They had seen what Dante was capable of—how his love, once fierce and unyielding, had turned into a weapon.
Isla's hands trembled on the reins, but she pressed forward. Her thoughts were a storm of guilt and defiance. She could still see the faces of the villagers who had trusted her, the children she'd promised to keep safe. The flames had taken them, and that was on her.
But there was no time to grieve. Not while Dante was out there.
