The moment Isabella tried to stand, her legs trembled so badly she almost fell again.
Pain shot up from her injured thigh like lightning, hot and sharp, making her curse under her breath. Before she could even steady herself, the man was already in front of her, his hands reaching out, expression—surprisingly—worried.
"Don't touch me," she hissed, pulling her arm free before his fingers could even brush her skin.
He froze mid-motion.
Her glare cut like a blade, and her voice—low, tired, but full of that same wild spark—came out steady, "I wasn't sent here to get attached to anyone. I can stand on my own."
He didn't argue. Maybe he knew better now.
So she walked—limping but proud—toward the flower that glowed under the full beam of moonlight. The air around it shimmered faintly, silver dust spiraling as if the mountain itself were breathing. The light was soft yet divine, bending toward her every time she took a step closer.
