Chapter 197: The celebration on the horizon

The Verdantis Capital was unrecognizable.

Dante strode through the streets, his every step slow, methodical—a man not truly walking toward anything, but simply moving, adrift in the tide of celebration that swelled around him.

The Festival of Octavia had transformed the bleak, snow-cloaked city into something almost otherworldly. Verdantis, a nation of discipline and cold pragmatism and faith, had for once cast aside its solemn mantle. The stone streets were lined with hanging banners of deep crimson and gold, swaying with the icy winds. Ornate statues of Octavia, the Goddess of War, Magic, and Navigation, loomed at every plaza, each one different from the next.

Yet the people did not pray today.

No—today was for revelry.

Dante moved like a ghost, his white cape billowing in the winter air. Children laughed as they darted between the crowd, their small feet kicking up tufts of powdered snow. Merchants called out to passersby, their stalls overflowing with exotic goods from the far reaches of the continent—spiced meats roasted over open flames, honey-glazed pastries dusted with golden sugar, wines so potent their fragrance alone was intoxicating.

It was... loud.

Too loud. Too alive. Too warm.

His gauntleted fingers curled slightly. It was not discomfort he felt, nor distaste. It was simply... foreign.

Even in his earliest memories, Verdantis had rarely been like this. He had only known its war camps, its fortresses. This festival was like a dream imposed upon the waking world—one that felt as if it might vanish at any moment, swallowed by the inevitability of what was to come.

He should not have been here.

Yet his feet carried him forward.

Ahead, a grand procession wound through the main thoroughfare. Warriors and mages—draped in ceremonial robes and gilded armor—marched in formation, their steps perfectly synchronized, their hands raised as they cast spectacular displays of magic into the sky.

Flames took the shape of gilded wyverns, soaring high before bursting into a cascade of golden embers. Shimmering glyphs, etched into the air with spellcraft, pulsed with brilliance, forming constellations above the streets.

And then came the knights—a retinue clad in Verdantis' finest plate, their silvered armor polished to a mirror sheen. They rode through the streets on armored destriers, their capes embroidered with the sigil, a carving of two intricate blades crossing, a sigil of Octavia, their lances held high.

Dante did not stop to watch.

He turned down a side street, away from the heart of the festivities, the noise fading slightly.

But even here, the festival thrived.

Couples danced beneath hanging lanterns, their steps weaving between patches of freshly fallen snow. Street performers juggled enchanted knives, the blades twirling through the air before vanishing in puffs of silver mist. A bard sang a ballad, her voice carrying through the air, a melody of ancient wars.

Dante's eyes flickered toward a nearby stall, where an elderly vendor sold figurines of Octavia, each one painstakingly carved from ironwood. He noticed a young girl clutching one tightly, her red mittens stark against the dark grain of the wood. She beamed as she held it up to her father.

"Do you think the Goddess is watching us tonight?" she asked, eyes full of childish wonder.

Her father chuckled, ruffling her hair. "Of course," he said. "She watches all of us."

Dante turned away. He doubted that.

Beneath all this—beneath the laughter, the music, the light—something loomed. Something vast, something inevitable.

The calamities.

Their names alone carried a weight no mortal should ever have had to bear. They were coming. And yet… the people of Verdantis laughed, unaware. He knew what it meant to fight against fate. He knew that no matter how strong one was, no matter how unbreakable their will…

Sometimes, fate won.

And yet, if he could stand between it and this fragile peace, he would.

He had to.

Even if it meant standing alone. 

Suddenly a familiar voice broke through the winter air.

"You do not seem to be enjoying the festivities."

Dante turned slightly, recognizing the soothing yet composed tone.

"Hm," Dante exhaled, his voice barely shifting in tone. "I thought you were still in Galadriel, Rowena."

The spawn of Astraea studied him, her gaze sweeping over him in a quiet, assessing manner—never intrusive, but always precise.

"I had business in Verdantis." Her answer was simple, though not lacking in weight. "And the Ancestors remained elusive, so there was little purpose in staying in Galadriel."

A reasonable conclusion.

"I see." He glanced back at the festival, the passing crowd shifting like a river around them. "The others are already in Galadriel, then?"

She nodded once. "They are."

"Hm. Then let us be off."

Without further discussion, Dante resumed his walk, and Rowena followed at his side.

The two moved through the streets in silence, the cold wind weaving between them, their footsteps measured but unhurried.

Among all the Inheritors, Dante and Rowena were perhaps the quietest. Their exchanges had never needed excess words; there was an understanding between them, unspoken yet present. They were both warriors, both forces shaped by something beyond mortal means.

But the silence between them was not one of discomfort. If anything, it felt oddly natural—as though speech was not always necessary for them to grasp the presence of the other.

Even so, Rowena eventually broke it.

"You seem troubled," she said, her voice neither demanding nor particularly pressing, yet sharp in its precision.

Dante did not immediately answer. His helmet concealed his expression, yet she still discerned something within him.

Finally, he spoke.

"The Ancestor who wrought havoc upon the capital," he began, his voice even. "She will be at the celebration as well, mayhap the others as well."

Rowena did not look shocked. If anything, she merely raised a perfectly sculpted brow.

"To be that bold..." she murmured, more to herself than to him. "I suppose with such vast power, arrogance is to be expected."

"Indeed." Dante's tone remained leveled, but his thoughts lingered on the implications.

"Would you prefer the others refrain from engaging them?" Rowena asked, already anticipating the answer.

"That would be prudent. Especially Maerwynn."

"Understandable." She gave a slow nod, her teal gaze flickering briefly as if calculating the potential consequences.

Dante respected her cooperation. She did not argue the point, nor did she ask needless questions. Unlike some of the others, Rowena had no intention of testing the depths of an Ancestor's power for mere curiosity or pride.

Still, her gaze flickered with something else—something unreadable.

"You yourself are not as arrogant," she noted, her voice carrying a hint of something near amusement.

Dante tilted his head slightly. "What do you mean?"

Rowena exhaled softly, her lips barely curving into a ghost of a smile. "Many with such vast power do not choose to walk the path you have," she said. "It would be easy, would it not? To simply give in."

A beat of silence passed between them, punctuated only by the distant laughter of festival-goers and the flickering glow of lanterns above.

"...Maybe," Dante admitted, though his voice did not waver. "But doing so would do me a disservice."

Rowena hummed, a thoughtful sound.

"You truly believe that?"

"I do." He did not hesitate. "To force my ideals upon this new era, as the Ancestors do, would serve no purpose."

She observed him for a moment longer before speaking again.

"That kind of restraint... it is rare." Her voice was quiet, almost contemplative.

Dante did not reply.

They continued walking, the festival's radiance casting flickering shadows on the snow-laden streets.

At some point, their slow steps led them toward a bridge overlooking the city—one of the higher vantage points. From here, the entire capital unfolded before them, golden lights shimmering in the vast whiteness of snow.

The sounds of laughter and celebration drifted up from below, distant yet ever-present.

Rowena stopped at the edge of the bridge, resting a hand lightly on the stone railing.

"You speak of purpose," she mused, glancing out over the city. "And yet you walk alone."

Dante halted beside her.

"I have no need for company."

Rowena tilted her head slightly. "That is not true."

He turned to her.

"You are not alone, Dante," she said simply, her teal gaze unwavering. "Even if you insist on carrying this burden yourself, you are not alone."

For a long moment, he did not respond.

The cold wind brushed between them, shifting the strands of her pale blonde hair.

Finally, he spoke.

"...Perhaps."

It was not an admission.

But it was not a rejection, either.

Rowena gave the barest hint of a smile. She said nothing else, but there was something in the way she lingered there beside him—unrushed, unbothered, as if content with simply existing in this moment.

The festival roared around them, but for Dante and Rowena, the world moved at a measured pace. Their footsteps crunched lightly against the freshly fallen snow as they moved through the streets once more.

Fire-dancers twirled in the plazas, their bodies moving with unnatural fluidity as ribbons of flame twisted and coiled around them like living serpents. Ice conjurers stood at street corners, crafting crystalline sculptures of Octavia—each carving a fine depiction of the Goddess, reflecting the vast interpretations of her legend.

Music filled the air—harps, lyres, and war drums beating in unison, the rhythm echoing through the ancient city. 

The crowd was a mixture of nobles, warriors, and commoners—many clad in vibrant festival garments, embroidered with the sigils of Verdantis or the imagery of Octavia. 

And yet, despite the warmth of the city, Dante and Rowena remained untouched by its frivolity.

Their pace remained steady, their conversation unfazed by the world celebrating around them.

"You speak of the Ancestors attending the gathering," Rowena mused as they passed beneath an enormous archway adorned with banners of Verdantis and Octavia's sigil. "What do you truly expect to happen?"

Dante's helm tilted slightly, as though contemplating the weight of that question.

"Nothing," he replied. "For now."

Rowena arched a delicate brow. "For now?"

Dante exhaled lightly, "Beings of such power would not waste effort appearing without purpose. Everything they do is deliberate."

"You believe they are weaving something unseen?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps they simply wish to observe," Dante answered, his tone unreadable. "But I do not believe for a moment that their presence is without consequence."

Rowena's expression remained composed, but there was an undeniable sharpness to her gaze. "Then you do not intend to strike first?"

Dante's response was immediate. "That would be unwise."

Rowena nodded slowly, absorbing his words.

"It is rare to see you exercise such restraint," she noted, the barest trace of amusement laced within her tone. Dante had stormed Vel'ryr a total of two times after all.

Dante glanced at her. "I am not reckless."

Rowena hummed. "No. But I have seen what you are capable of when you deem something an enemy."

Dante did not reply immediately. His stride remained unbroken. Finally, he spoke.

"This festival does not belong to me. Nor does it belong to the Ancestors," he said evenly. "It belongs to those who still have something left to cherish."

For the first time that evening, Rowena's expression shifted—a flicker of something deeper, more thoughtful.

"You would not let your hand be forced," she murmured.

"No," Dante affirmed. "Not there."

Their conversation fell into silence once more, but it was not uncomfortable. The understanding between them remained firm. And yet, despite the weight of their discussion, neither of them turned away from the path ahead.

As they moved further into the heart of the festival, the central plaza unfolded before them—a vast open space where an enormous statue of Octavia stood tall, her hands raised as if guiding the stars.

Around them, performers weaved dances, and vendors called out their wares—enchanted jewelry that shimmered like the night sky, armor crafted with rare Verdantian steel, relics said to be blessed by Octavia herself.

Dante's gaze flickered toward a group of children near the statue's base—young Verdantian boys and girls clad in festival garb, their eyes wide with awe as a storyteller recited a tale of Octavia's victories.

For a fleeting moment, his footsteps slowed.

Rowena noticed.

"You think of your past?" she asked, though her tone lacked any intrusion.

Dante remained still for a moment.

"...No," he finally said, his voice quiet. "I think of what will remain once all this is gone."

Rowena studied him carefully.

"You expect this to fall?"

"Nothing lasts forever," Dante replied simply.

Rowena's gaze lingered on him. "And yet, you fight to preserve it."

Dante's helm tilted slightly toward her, though he did not immediately respond.

Rowena continued.

"You bear the burden of war, yet you do not revel in it," she observed. "You protect, yet you distance yourself from those you protect."

Dante turned fully to face her.

"Do you disapprove?" he asked, his voice unreadable.

Rowena exhaled softly, a rare moment of something almost resembling amusement.

"No," she said. "I simply find it... curious."

Dante regarded her for a long moment before speaking again.

"Curious how?"

Rowena's lips curved ever so slightly, though it was not a full smile.

"That someone with such strength," she said, "chooses to carry his burdens alone."

Dante did not answer immediately.

The sounds of the festival pulsed around them, laughter, music, and warmth filling the cold air.

And yet, between them, there was only a quiet understanding—a space untainted by revelry, but not untouched by connection.

Finally, Dante spoke.

"...It is not a choice."

Rowena's gaze did not waver.

"Then perhaps," she said lightly, though her tone was unreadable, "it is time you reconsider." Dante did not respond.

Their walk eventually led them toward a high bridge overlooking the city, its stone arches dusted with snow, the golden light of the festival stretching out beneath them like a vast sea of stars.

Rowena rested a gloved hand on the railing, her dark hair barely stirring in the cold wind.

"Tell me," she mused. "What do you truly want, Dante?"

Dante stood beside her, gazing out over the capital.

His answer was quick. "To endure."

Rowena exhaled lightly. "A hollow answer," she remarked. "And yet, I wonder..." She turned toward him, her teal gaze sharp yet unreadable. "...Is there still something left for you to seek?"

Dante did not answer.

But for the first time, he was not certain if he had one.