I was about to turn back—toward the carnage, toward the endless cries of the wounded—when I heard footsteps behind me.

Heavy. Hesitant. Familiar.

Dante.

I didn’t face him. Not yet. My jaw was clenched so tight it hurt. My lungs dragged in a deep breath as the trees swayed above us in silent judgment.

Then I heard it.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

I turned slowly.

He looked like he’d seen a ghost. No—worse. Like he was one. His face was ashen, lips trembling. His eyes were wide, rimmed with red, like he’d been trying not to cry for hours and failing miserably.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, voice cracking. “I...