The letter arrived three days later.
Folded neatly, sealed in black wax, and slipped beneath her door while she slept. No footsteps had woken her, no creak of the stairs, no sign of intrusion. Yet when Isla woke to the pale light of dawn, the envelope lay on the floor like a shadow that had been waiting.
Her breath caught.
She didn't touch it right away. She just stared at it, her pulse drumming in her ears.
The wax bore no crest, but she didn't need one. The way her name was written—precise, deliberate, curved with a subtle pressure that betrayed control—was unmistakable.
**Isla.**
He had found her.
She forced herself to move. She picked up the letter and placed it on the table, her hands shaking as though it were alive. For a long moment, she stood staring at it, the sound of rain dripping from the eaves filling the silence around her.
When she finally broke the seal, she half-expected blood to spill from the envelope instead of paper.
