His Curse Awakens

The dream came again, sharper this time, as if it no longer needed permission.

Dante stood knee-deep in blood under a sky split by a red, hungry moon. The earth breathed fire, blackened with ash and bone. All around him lay the wreckage of something sacred—armor etched with divine script, wings torn and trampled, screams still echoing in the ruins. His hands dripped with blood. His claws—yes, claws—curved like crescent moons, slick with ruin.

He turned.

She stood behind him.

Cloaked in flame and frost, eyes like burning stars—Selena, but not the woman he knew. This was a different queen, older and terrible in her divinity. She wore no crown, only a veil of starlight, and her voice was a song of war.

"You chose this," she said.

And he knew she meant himself—the beast beneath his skin, the one now free.

He woke with a strangled cry, heart galloping, breath raw in his throat.

His chambers were quiet.

Too quiet.