Dante dreamt of a cathedral, its arches cracked and groaning, the stained glass shattered into shards of dying color. Whispers slithered through the air, twisting around him like unseen serpents. The scent of burned parchment and old blood clung to the ruins.
At the altar sat the Trickster.
His throne was a tangle of bones and rusted blades, shifting restlessly beneath him, as if trying to escape his weight. He grinned like a skull, tapping his fingers against the armrest.
"Ah, little shadow. Have you come to confess?"
Dante narrowed his eyes. He was used to the Trickster's games by now.
"Tell me about my family," he said.
The Trickster let out a soft chuckle, amusement glinting in his too-bright eyes.
"If you want the truth, you'll have to step where even the Reapers fear to tread—the Sanctum Library."
The cathedral groaned. The whispers grew louder, curling into words.
"A place of forbidden gods, where knowledge itself is a curse. But worry not—your new mask gives you the key."
The Trickster leaned forward, his grin widening.
"Act the noble. Play the part. And you may yet find what was stolen from you."
Dante moved to step forward—to demand more—but the Trickster snapped his fingers.
The cathedral shattered.
Dante woke up with the Trickster's laughter echoing in his mind.
---
The Reapers didn't believe in gentle welcomes.
Morning training began with the initiation duel, a time-honored tradition where newcomers were broken in—sometimes literally—by the stronger recruits.
Dante had no intention of standing out. He still needed to play the part of Lirian while learning the truth about his past.
But Dain Varros had other plans.
The older recruit, tall and sharp-eyed, stepped forward with a smirk.
"Back from your little noble tantrum, Lirian?" he drawled, voice carrying easily through the training hall. "Maybe you should have stayed home with your silk sheets and servants."
The gathered recruits chuckled. Lirian had once been strong—but arrogant and reckless.
They expected Dante to be the same.
"I had to make sure the Guild was still worth my time," Dante replied coolly. "So far, I'm unimpressed."
Dain's smirk twitched. The instructor barked out a command, and the duel began.
Dain was fast. His blade blurred, testing Dante's defenses.
Dante let himself stumble—just barely. He dodged late, letting the attack graze him, enough to make it look like he was struggling.
He needed to sell the illusion.
If he won too easily, people would question how Lirian had changed.
If he lost too badly, he'd lose credibility as a noble.
He fought smart, watching Dain's movements. The older recruit relied on aggression, pressing forward too quickly.
Dante saw his chance.
A feint. A sidestep. And a well-placed strike to the ribs.
Dain staggered back, snarling.
The duel ended with Dante standing over him, breathing hard, favoring his right side—just enough to make the victory look earned.
The recruits murmured. Some were impressed. Others skeptical.
Dain glared up at him, eyes dark with something more than anger.
"Tch. Lucky hit."
Dante offered a small smirk. "Try again next time."
But inside, he knew this wasn't over.
---
That night, Dante followed the Trickster's clue.
The Sanctum Library wasn't just a place of knowledge—it was a fortress of secrets.
Tall, black-iron gates guarded its entrance, warded by ancient spells. The air inside was thick with dust and candle smoke, lined with endless shelves of tomes bound in leather, bone, and shadow.
Few were allowed in.
But Lirian was a noble.
The guards let him pass with barely a second glance.
Deep in the restricted section, he found what he was looking for.
An ancient ledger, its pages brittle with age.
Its title:
"Marked for Erasure."
Dante's heart pounded as he turned the pages, scanning the list.
Dante's fingers hovered over the brittle page, his breath tight in his throat. He scanned the list again.
His family's name wasn't there.
But that was impossible.
The Trickster had led him here. He had seen the mark of erasure with his own eyes.
His pulse quickened. Had someone erased them completely? Had they ever existed at all?
The ink on the page seemed to blur, shifting before his eyes. As if mocking him.
If even the Reapers' records held no trace of them, then something greater had buried the truth.
His jaw clenched. He needed another path.
His gaze drifted over the surrounding shelves, filled with books that few dared to touch.
Forbidden gods.
Dante exhaled, steadying himself, and pulled a tome from the shelf.
It opened with a whisper.
The Forgotten Gods
The book was old, its cover cracked and flaking. The title had long since faded, but the pages pulsed with something ancient.
Dante read in silence, the library's stillness pressing in around him.
The Forbidden Gods.
Those cast out, stripped of worship, their names spoken only in hushed warnings.
There was the Hollow Queen, who had swallowed the stars.
The Veiled One, who had glimpsed the end of time and wept until his form unraveled.
The Trickster.
Dante's breath caught.
He turned the page, pulse quickening.
Once, the Trickster had been a god of fate, of crossroads and choices. His laughter had echoed through temples, his name whispered in prayers for luck and mischief alike.
But then—
Then he had forsaken godhood.
No one knew why.
Until now.
The next passage told a story lost to time.
Once, the Trickster had fallen in love.
Not with a goddess, not with a celestial being, but with a mortal.
She was no queen, no priestess. Just a girl who had once laughed in a world that did not deserve her.
Her name was lost, but her story remained.
She had not feared him, not as others did. She had seen past the masks, past the riddles and the chaos.
And he had changed for her.
No longer did he weave fate for amusement. No longer did he meddle in the lives of mortals just to watch them dance.
For the first time, he had wanted to be known not as a god, but simply as a man.
And for that crime, the heavens had cursed them both.
The gods do not love.
The gods do not forsake divinity for mortals.
The punishment was cruel.
His beloved was taken from him—not in death, not in suffering, but in something far worse.
She was erased.
Every memory of her, every trace of her existence, unmade by divine decree.
Even he, the Trickster himself, could not find her.
And so, in defiance of the heavens, he did the unthinkable.
He broke his godhood.
He shattered his own divinity, severing himself from the celestial realm. He fell, no longer a deity, but something else entirely—
A forgotten god.
A wandering shadow.
A whisper in the dark.
And ever since, he had been searching.
Searching for the one thing even gods could not undo.
Dante closed the book, his breath unsteady.
This was why the Trickster still played his games.
Why he led people to half-truths and riddles, but never answers.
Because he had lost the one thing he had ever truly wanted.
And now…
Now Dante couldn't shake the feeling that the Trickster's fate was a warning.
His family had been erased, just as the Trickster's love had been.
If he wasn't careful, if he pushed too far—
Would the same fate await him?
Would he, too, be erased?
A gust of air stirred the pages of the book.
Dante's head snapped up.
He wasn't alone.
The library's shadows were too deep now.
Something—or someone—was watching.
A whisper curled against his ear, low and amused.
"Enjoying the bedtime story, little shadow?"
Dante turned, pulse hammering.
The Trickster stood at the edge of the candlelight, his eyes gleaming like a cat's in the dark.
Dante's fists clenched. "You led me here."
The Trickster tilted his head. "I did."
"Why?"
A slow smile. "Because, dear Dante, you and I?"
The Trickster took a step closer.
"We are more alike than you think."
And with that, the candles snuffed out.