The morning came heavy with silence. The snow had stopped, but the air carried the stillness of something waiting to break. Isla stood at the highest tower of the fortress, her hands pressed against the frozen stone. Below her, the world seemed carved from frost and ash. Smoke drifted from the rebel fires, curling into the gray sky like fading prayers.
In the valley beyond, Dante's camp stretched in quiet formation. His soldiers had built trenches, fire pits, and watch posts—an army that did not rush but waited, patient and certain. It was a siege built on intent rather than speed, the kind meant to suffocate rather than crush.
Isla watched them for a long time, her breath fogging the air. She could see his command tent at the far edge of the ridge. She didn't have to guess who stood inside.
