Chapter 196: On the horizon
[25 August: 19:42 Post Meridiem]
[Verdantis: Capital City]
The castle walls of Verdantis were steeped in memory. They loomed over Dante as if watching him with an invisible gaze, ancient and ever-constant. Moving through these halls was almost therapeutic, though not in any way that could be called pleasant. The sensation was more akin to pressing on an old wound—not to cause further pain, but to reaffirm that the pain was still there, that it had never truly left.
His gaze, hidden behind the impassive alloy of his helmet, studied everything with a scrutinizing precision, his white-lined cloak flowing behind him with each step. The detailed engravings on the castle's pillars, the subtle golden accents that adorned its towering arches, the cool marble beneath his sabatons—it was all different, yet eerily the same. It had been three hundred years, after all, long enough for Verdantis to reshape itself, to rebuild what was lost in war and time.
And yet, no matter how much stone was reforged, how many banners were raised anew, he could not help but look upon it all with a nostalgic light.
A dangerous feeling.
Memory was a double-edged blade, and Dante had spent a painfully long time learning how to dull its edge.
For one such as him, time had long since ceased to flow in the way it did for others. Events of the distant past felt as though they had only just happened. The ghosts of that era still clung to him, whispering reminders of failure.
Failure to save Princess Alyssia.
Failure to save his home.
Failure to be more than just a man in the end.
His right hand clenched into a fist, the cold bite of his gauntlet pressing into his palm. No. Not today. He had long since learned to keep such thoughts at bay, to move forward regardless of the burden of memory. Yet tonight, in the heavy quiet of these halls, they seeped in like ink on parchment.
The sound of his white sabatons striking the floor was too loud, echoing in the stillness of the corridor, the only company to his wandering mind. He turned his head slightly, gazing through one of the castle's tall windows. Outside, the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the snowy expanse in hues of gold and deep crimson. The cityscape beyond was illuminated in a breathtaking display of twilight, the festival lights of Verdantis beginning to flicker like stars.
A beautiful sight. Yet beauty alone was not enough to move him.
Tonight, he and the other participants would need to make their way to Galadriel, where a formal gathering awaited in preparation for tomorrow's festival. A meaningless affair in the grand scheme of things. He held no particular anticipation for Verdantis's victory—what did triumph even mean in an age like this?—but he had sworn allegiance to this nation. And so, he would fight, if for no other reason than duty.
A knight's duty was all he had left.
Then he stopped.
A presence. A familiar one.
His gaze sharpened beneath his helm, every muscle in his body tensing with the quiet preparation of an approaching threat. And there, leaning lazily against a window frame further down the hall, was a figure he had hoped he'd never have to deal with so soon.
Her.
His frown, heavy and unrelenting, remained unseen beneath the cold alloy of his helmet, but had his face been bare, the intensity of his displeasure would have been unmistakable. Did she seriously have the audacity to stand there so brazenly, as if this place were hers? Did she expect to be welcomed, as though the scars she left upon this nation were merely passing blemishes?
Had he been less restrained, he might have scoffed at such arrogance.
Instead, his voice was sharpened and cold. "Ancestor of Chaos." The title rolled off his tongue like an epithet, each syllable carrying a weight of distaste.
She turned to face him then, crimson eyes laced with amusement, as if she had been waiting for him to acknowledge her. Still clad in her exotic golden armor, her presence was as unshakable as ever. Her long, golden-blonde hair cascaded down her back in soft waves, each strand catching the dying sunlight in an almost ethereal glow. If he didn't know better, if he were any lesser man, he might have been entranced.
But Dante knew better.
Her beauty was a weapon as much as her power was, wielded effortlessly.
And he had no intention of falling prey to it.
"You don't seem happy to see me," she mused, that knowing smirk playing on her lips, accentuating the perfect curve of them. A dangerous kind of beauty—one that could shatter men with a whisper. "Most would bask in my presence, you know?"
Dante's reply was dry, devoid of the reverence she clearly expected. "Seems I am not most."
Rhiannon's smirk deepened. "True." She she tapped a heel on the pristine floor, her golden-plated boots echoing in the corridor. "After all, you're the oh-so-mighty Blood Starved Knight."
A title he wished had died with the Great War.
His arms folded across his chest, a quiet challenge in the gesture. He knew what she was doing, what she wanted—to unravel him, to poke and prod at the parts of him he preferred to leave buried. And yet, even as he willed himself to remain indifferent, there was no denying the weight of her presence.
Rhiannon pushed off the wall in a single, fluid motion, her stride slow, measured, confident. She stopped inches from him, standing taller than him—though in a way that felt deliberate.
Close. Too close.
Had he taken a step back, it would have been a concession, an unspoken admission of unease. And so, he held his ground, unmoving. Her eyes raked over him, a slow, methodical examination. Not with hostility—but something else.
Primal.
"How interesting," she murmured, voice just barely above a whisper. "To think you were him all along. A shame you keep that pretty face tucked away."
"Unlike you Ancestors and Fate Walkers, I keep the past where it belongs," he said, his voice even, unwavering. "This era has no need for that knight anymore. I leave him buried so that this world may move forward."
She hummed, as if entertained by his answer rather than persuaded by it.
"Still on that, I see," she mused, tilting her head. Her gaze dipped, lingering. "And yet, you should have let me know it was you. Have we not shared… moments in the past?"
"Distant memories to me."
Rhiannon chuckled, a low, knowing sound.
"How very cruel," she murmured, before leaning in just a fraction closer. "Morrigan would talk your ear off."
At the name, it was but a minute shift—a nearly imperceptible motion of his frame, a fleeting stiffness in his posture—but Rhiannon caught it. Of course, she did.
It was deliberate, the way her gaze lingered on the minute change, how her crimson eyes gleamed in the dim candlelight of the corridor, soaking in every detail with patience. She didn't speak on it, no need to—his reaction was proof enough that Morrigan's name still held weight, that even now, even beneath all those layers of unshakable composure, there remained something that could be stirred.
How very intriguing.
"Well, it matters not, I suppose," she finally said, a touch of amusement lacing her tone, as if she hadn't just struck a nerve, as if she hadn't just unearthed something buried. She sighed, tilting her head, her golden-blonde locks cascading over her armored shoulder. "I am here about that wager of ours."
Dante's gaze, still hidden beneath the alloy of his helmet, did not waver. Not an ounce of intrigue graced his voice when he replied. "And your consensus?"
"Hm, still a work in progress." She waved it off with an airy gesture, as if the matter was of no real consequence to her. He narrowed his eyes. If that were the case, why had she even brought it up?
More games. Always more games.
"If that is all, then be on your way," he said dryly, his tone implacable.
She tilted her head.
A simple movement, one that should have meant nothing, but somehow, it did. Somehow, every small action she took only seemed to emphasize the allure she carried so effortlessly—the way her lips curved into something that was not quite a smile, the way the golden accents of her armor caught the dim light of the corridor, as if sculpted by the very hands of the divine.
It would have been easy—so terribly easy—to be entranced by a woman like her.
But Dante was not a man so easily swayed.
Not by beauty. Not by charm. Not by the ghosts of the past.
He knew full well the damage she had done. If not for the immense destruction their battle would bring, he would have ended her where she stood. But even so, he would not simply let her be. The wager between them still stood. And despite her nature, Rhiannon was, at the very least, a woman of her word.
"How very cold," she mused, though his dismissive tone did not seem to dissuade her in the slightest. If anything, she looked entirely too entertained. She took a step forward, the golden heels of her armored sabatons clicking against the polished stone beneath them, slow and deliberate. "There's a celebration in Galadriel, no?" she continued, feigning thoughtfulness, as if she hadn't already known the answer. "All who participate in this little festival must attend. So come," she said, voice dropping to something lower, smoother, a subtle challenge beneath the invitation. Her next words were spoken with a haughty certainty, as if it were a privilege beyond measure. "I shall allow you the pleasure of accompanying me."
Dante's arms folded, the alloy of his gauntlets scraping against itself with the quiet hiss of metal. A resounding "no" sat at the tip of his tongue.
But then, his gaze lingered, if only for a moment. Having Rhiannon in his sights would be beneficial. If she truly found this era unworthy, then all bets were off. He had no illusions—she could turn the tides of fate on a whim, and he would not risk her doing so unchecked.
He exhaled slowly, a quiet sound of contemplation. "Hmph."
"I shall take that as a yes," she purred, a coy smile blooming upon her lips—lips that were too full, too tempting, too cruel.
"I'll await you, dear Knight so drenched in blood."
She turned on her heel, golden hair swaying behind her, her every movement a orchestration of elegance and allure. But then—the deliberate sway of her hips.
She did it on purpose.
Of course, she did.
Dante did not react, did not give her the satisfaction of a glance. Instead, he turned away, gaze falling to the window beside him. Outside, the city of Verdantis stretched beyond the castle walls, cloaked in the deepening hues of twilight, the distant glow of lanterns flickering to life in the streets below.
Yet his mind was not on the beauty of the sight.
No—his thoughts were a storm, tangled and restless.
Rhiannon was a distraction. A dangerous one.
And yet, she was far from his only concern.
The calamities.
Even now, their shadow loomed over everything, a threat that not even the Gods could fully comprehend. Their very existence was an enigma—they could only be defined by their names, and even that offered little solace. Dante had searched relentlessly for Aegraxes and the Divine Blade Nihil, but the Fate Walker remained well hidden. That alone was telling. The festival in Galadriel—surely it held some significance in his plans.
He would not allow Vel'ryr to win.
No matter the cost, he would succeed.
("But should the calamities come to pass, all must be prepared.")
His steps were slow, measured, yet his mind worked tirelessly, piecing together what little he knew.
The reality was harsh.
He was but one man.
Despite the immense power he wielded, he could not stop what was to come alone.
Yet he would try.
He would strive to preserve this era, to protect what little peace remained, even if it meant sacrificing all that he was.
And if that path led him to ruin—if it led him to a fate darker than even his own past—then so be it.