The air in Iceland was like a physical baptism. It was clean, sharp, and scented with salt and cold earth. The cottage was exactly as Sasha’s research had shown—a small, sturdy structure of dark wood and stone, perched on a cliff edge overlooking a violent, grey sea. There was no gilded cage here. There were only the elements: the wind that screamed like a banshee, the sea that crashed against black sand beaches, and the vast, unforgiving sky.
For the first week, they did nothing but exist. They walked the desolate beaches, the wind whipping their hair into tangles. They built fires in the stone hearth and ate simple food. They didn’t talk about Demetri. They didn’t talk about the empire they’d left behind. They were two women, learning how to breathe again.
Sasha set up a makeshift stud
