The room was steeped in silence.
Not the kind that soothed.
But the kind that suffocated.
Isola sat across from Rowena, her hands clasped together in her lap, her usually captivating eyes dim with quiet guilt. Her heart was heavy—not for herself, but for her.
For Rowena.
For the woman who had always carried herself like an unshakable storm, relentless and regal, who now sat in the dark glow of the fire, her form still, her gaze fixed upon the darkness beyond the balcony.
She had insisted on seeing those memories.
And now she had seen them.
The truth.
The cruelty.
The suffering.
And worst of all…
The father she had loved standing by, doing nothing.
Isola swallowed hard, struggling with the weight of her own choice.
She had not wanted to do this.
Rowena was carrying a child, a life not yet born, a symbol of hope in a world still struggling to rise from the ashes of war. She had pleaded with her to wait, to not burden herself with this now.
But Rowena had insisted.
