The dawn did not break gently upon the valley, for it arrived as something ancient and watchful, its pale light stretching slowly across stone and earth as though testing whether the world still deserved its warmth, and Roberto De Luca stood at the edge where shadow met day, his posture still, his presence quiet, yet carrying a weight that did not belong to time but to something far older.
His eyes were closed.
Not in rest.
But in listening.
The wind moved first.
Soft.
Then sharper.
And within it—
Something wrong.
His breath shifted.
Subtle.
Measured.
Yet deeper than before.
"Blood," he murmured, his voice low, almost inaudible, though the word did not leave without meaning, his fingers tightening faintly at his sides as the scent reached him, as the echo of conflict stirred something that had long remained still.
His eyes opened.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
And with that single movement—
The valley changed.
