The rain had not stopped for three days. It came down in thin, endless threads, turning the camp roads into rivers of mud. Isla sat beneath the worn canvas of her tent, the flickering lantern casting her shadow against the fabric like a ghost that refused to disappear.
She had not slept much since the messenger returned from Dante's estate. The man's face had been pale, his voice trembling when he said Dante did not speak for a long time after hearing her words. That silence, more than any threat, had haunted her.
But she could not take them back. She would not.
She had built her life on defiance, and even now, when her body was heavy with child and her heart frayed at the edges, she could not give him what he wanted.
The sound of boots sloshing through the mud broke her thoughts. Her guard lifted the flap of her tent. "Lady Isla, Luca requests your presence. Urgently."
Her stomach tightened. She rose, pulling on her cloak. "Tell him I am coming."
