The sun bled over the horizon like a wound reopening. Golden light spilled across the cobblestone streets of Florence, illuminating the empty piazza where Isabella Romano stood — silent, unflinching, a figure caught between time and truth.

Her pulse echoed like thunder beneath her skin. The air was heavy with the scent of jasmine and smoke — remnants of the fire from the night before, the one that had nearly erased Dante from her world again.

Now, everything felt both too bright and too dim.

Her fingers brushed the smooth surface of the antique hourglass Dante had given her — its sands frozen midfall, the symbol of their love and...