The night burned behind them like a memory that refused to die.

Flames clawed at the sky, painting it orange and gold as Dante and Isabella staggered down the hill, coughing through the thick smoke. Every breath felt like swallowing fire. His arm was wrapped tightly around her waist, half-carrying, half-dragging her as they stumbled through the trees. The world smelled of ash, blood, and loss.

“Keep going,” Dante rasped, his voice rough from the smoke.

Isabella’s knees trembled. “I—can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, forcing his tone steady. “We’re almost there.”

They crashed through the underbrush until the sound of the burning estate faded into a distant roar. The...