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The dawn crept in slowly, as if hesitant to cast light on what remained. From the balcony of the DeLuca mansion, Elena stood wrapped in silence, her gaze fixed on the scorched horizon. The sun painted everything in hues of gold and blood-red, a cruel reminder of what they had fought for—what they had lost. Smoke still curled from distant wreckage, drifting lazily toward the pale sky like the dying breath of a battlefield that had swallowed too much. She gripped the cold iron railing, her knuckles white, her skin pale against the dark silk of her sleeves. Beneath her composed expression, her chest ached with the weight of the dead. They had won. The enemy was broken. The empire had endured. But the cost... Beside her, Alessandro stood with his shoulders squared, arms crossed tightly ove
- Writer
