The days that followed were unnervingly quiet. The storm had passed, and so had the bloodshed, but the silence that replaced it was not peace—it was waiting. Every step inside the villa carried the soft hum of tension, like the echo of a wound trying to close.
Isla spent her mornings walking the garden paths alone. The air had grown warmer, the flowers in full bloom, but she felt none of it. Her thoughts lingered on Dante, on the changes she saw but could not trust. There were moments when she would catch him watching her from afar, his expression unreadable, as though he was trying to memorize her without touching her.
She didn't know which frightened her more—that he had changed, or that he hadn't.
Miriam joined her one morning, carrying a basket of herbs. "The men have been quieter lately," the maid said, glancing toward the distant courtyard. "Even the guards look less tense."
