Chapter 71 The House Of Wolves

The Romanian countryside stretched out like a landscape painted in solemn hues—deep pine greens, icy blues, and the pale whites of early snowfall. As their convoy wound through the forested curves of the Carpathians, Isabella leaned her forehead against the cold glass, letting the silence of the mountains settle into her bones. Behind her, the others rode in measured silence. The cost of Cairo still clung to them like ash—the Oracle’s death, the near loss of everything. But here, nestled between time-worn roads and ancient trees, there was a sense of promise. Or perhaps, one last chance.