The fortress loomed like a scar against the frozen horizon, half consumed by ice, half alive with flickers of rebel fire. From afar, it looked abandoned. Up close, it breathed—quietly, watchfully.
Isla walked the ramparts at dawn, her cloak trailing behind her like smoke. The air was sharp enough to bite her lungs, but she had grown used to discomfort. It was the one thing she could still control.
She paused by the edge, looking down at the courtyard below. Men and women trained with old blades, some made of rusted steel, others of scavenged iron. They were outlaws, refugees, and soldiers who had lost their cause but not their will to fight.
She admired them for that.
Her hand brushed against her belly. The child she carried had become the only constant in her shifting world. At night, she whispered promises into the dark—promises of freedom, of a life untouched by blood and chains.
But even promises could tremble.
