Isabella
You don’t get to choose when you lose everything, but watching Rosalia collapse, her glow snuffed out by Andre’s reborn talisman, is as close as it gets. I’m pinned on the melting tundra, Luca’s knife grazing my neck, my blood pooling as the citadel’s throne pulses through the portal, its glow mocking us.
Angelo’s eyes are closed, his breaths barely there, and Elena’s pinned, her fight gone. The woman with Elena’s face, her journal blazing, claims the bloodline, while Lila’s “sister” plea lies dead, her glow dim. Moretti’s wolves howl for Andre, not Rosalia, and Camila’s betrayal festers, her glow faint.
The silver wolf’s still, Vincezio’s eyes dim, and a young man with my eyes steps from the citadel, his journal surging with Rosalia’s power, his voice, “The bloodline’s rebor
