The world came back to Isabella in fragments.

A ringing in her ears. The taste of ash. The weight of silence after chaos.

Her body lay sprawled across cold stone, her lungs struggling to remember how to breathe. Every inhale burned — smoke and dust filling her chest. The air felt heavy, as though the city itself was holding its breath.

Then came the memory — the flash of light, Dante’s voice, the hourglass pressed into her palm.

Her eyes flew open.

“Dante,” she croaked, her throat raw.

All around her, Florence was unrecognizable. The explosion had torn through the western quarter of the piazza — where the old clocktower...