That night, I attended dinner with Carlo and his family, though the conversation drifted around me like fog. I answered questions with half-hearted smiles, but my mind was elsewhere. The roasted chicken and potatoes on my plate tasted like ash, as most meals had for the past month.
Frustration coiled in my stomach, making it hard to swallow. It wasn’t just grief—it was anger, a fury aimed squarely at myself. Of all the people I could blame for my mom's death, I blamed me the most. Warrior training had been my escape, a way to outrun the guilt, but it hadn’t worked. I came back every day, covered in bruises and feeling no closer to forgiveness.
*‘We’ve got two options, Isabella,’* Blue snapped, fed up with my spiral of self-loathing. *‘Either you quit and go back to hiding, or you pus
