Isabella's POV
Dawn was a liar. It promised a new day, hope, clarity. It delivered only a gray, cold light that exposed the full, humiliating extent of my failure. The mist clung to the gnarled roots and dripping ferns, a shroud over my own personal hell.
I was a wreck. My body, which had once felt strong and capable in Dante’s garden, was a collection of screaming protests. The gash on my cheek had crusted over with dirt and blood, pulling taut with every grimace. My left knee was a swollen, throbbing knot of pain that refused to bend properly, forcing me into a lurching, pathetic hobble. And my foot—the one still clad only in a sodden, shredded sock—was a map of cuts and bruises, each step a fresh jolt of agony.
The satchel, my tiny repository of hope, was now a mocking weight on my
