The morning breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, carrying with it the scent of jasmine and damp earth. The sun barely filtered through the olive branches, casting shadows over the meticulously manicured lawn. Svetlana sat on a stone bench, arms wrapped around her legs, chin resting on her knees. Her blue eyes—cold as a Russian winter—were lost in the horizon, where the sky met the vastness of the estate that, to her, was nothing more than a gilded cage.

She couldn’t understand why Dante had