Dante's fingers curled against the brittle pages of the book. His mind reeled at the revelation—his family's execution, sealed under divine authority. What did that even mean?
Then, like an unwanted breeze, a voice slithered into his ear.
"We are alike, you and I."
Dante stiffened. The Trickster's voice was always light, mocking, but there was something else in it now. Something weighted.
He turned his head slightly, and there the Trickster stood, perched on the edge of a table, absently flipping through a book upside-down. His grin was sharp, his golden eyes half-lidded with amusement.
"What do you mean?" Dante asked.
The Trickster tossed the book aside, stretching lazily.
"Blood binds the past and present, little shadow. I have danced through your veins long before you took your first breath."
Dante's jaw tightened. "Stop speaking in riddles and say what you mean."
The Trickster's grin widened.
"A god and a lady once danced beneath a red moon, and from that union came a child. A child who bore the weight of both the mortal and the divine. Time erodes many things, but blood remembers."
Dante's brows furrowed. "What—?"
Before he could press further, a voice cut through the silence.
"Well, well. If it isn't Lord Lirian, gracing us scholars with his presence."
Dante froze.
A figure leaned against the entrance of the restricted archives, arms crossed, a smug smirk curling his lips. The dim candlelight cast jagged shadows over his face, emphasizing the sharp angles and cold amusement in his eyes.
Instructor Malrik.
Dante had seen him before—an older man, lean but powerful, with the air of someone who had seen too much and regretted too little. He was one of the few people who had trained Lirian personally.
Dante swallowed his shock, slipping back into the role he needed to play.
"I wasn't aware that knowledge was forbidden to nobles," he said smoothly, tilting his chin up.
Malrik's smirk didn't fade. "Knowledge isn't. But curiosity is a dangerous thing, boy. You never used to have it."
Dante opened his mouth for a sharp retort—
And Malrik slapped him.
It came out of nowhere. No warning. Just a sharp, brutal strike across the face, cracking through the silence like a breaking bone.
Dante staggered, head snapping to the side, his vision flashing red.
And then—rage.
Rage like fire in his chest, hot and untamed, bursting through his veins like an uncontrollable flood. He wanted to rip this man apart. A thousand deaths, a thousand different ways—
Malrik watched him carefully, and then—he smiled.
"Good," he murmured.
Dante clenched his fists, his vision blurring at the edges. His head ached, not just from the strike, but from something deeper. His pulse roared in his ears.
Then—movement.
Malrik's face flickered.
For a second, it wasn't him anymore.
An old woman. A snarling dog. A harvest hound with rows of jagged teeth. His face twisted and shifted, a dozen different forms flickering in and out of existence, like a broken illusion struggling to hold itself together.
Dante didn't know. He couldn't know—he was too busy fighting his own mind, trying to keep the rage at bay.
But Malrik saw. And he laughed.
"You feel it, don't you?" he mused. "That anger. It doesn't belong to you alone."
Dante barely had time to process before Malrik grabbed him by the throat.
The pain was immediate.
Not physical—mental.
It was as if every ounce of suffering in the city had been poured into his skull. The weight of it was unbearable—pain, grief, despair, anger—it crashed into him like a tidal wave, drowning him in agony.
He choked, hands clawing at Malrik's wrist, trying to break free.
Malrik leaned in close, his voice a whisper.
"You're not Lirian."
Dante's blood ran cold.
"Your stance. Your movements. Your eyes. I trained the real one for years. He would never come here. Never read these books. Never act like this."
Dante gasped for air, but the more Malrik touched him, the worse the pain got. His mind splintered, his thoughts unraveling.
The Trickster's laughter curled around him.
"Would you like some help, little shadow?"
Dante had no choice.
Power flooded him, dark and smooth, wrapping around his limbs like a second skin.
For the first time, the Trickster granted him strength without demanding blood in return.
Dante's lips curled into a sharp smile.
Malrik's grip faltered.
Dante wrenched himself free, his body moving with a speed and precision that hadn't been there before. His fingers burned with raw power.
Malrik's expression darkened, but there was satisfaction in his eyes.
"Ah," he murmured. "So that's how it is."
Dante took a step forward, ready to strike—
And then, the Trickster whispered.
"A game, then."
A chill crawled down Dante's spine.
"I lent you power, little shadow. Shall we make a bet? Your body, for a few hours?"
Dante's pulse pounded. He knew the Trickster's games were never fair.
But the alternative?
The alternative was losing.
And Dante felt the mental strain, he didn't have a choice.
With a sharp inhale, he whispered back.
"Deal."
The world tilted. The shadows laughed.
And the Trickster took his first step forward in Dante's skin.
He was in control.