The fire snapped between them, its flickering light casting warped shadows across the hollow. Fog laced through the trees like fingers, and the Wane's silence pressed against the branches—heavy, listening.
Dantes leaned back against a moss-covered log, running a stained cloth down the length of his blade. He wasn't in a hurry. Blood had a way of clinging to things.
Alberta sat across from him, the green amulet at her throat glowing faintly, like it had something to say but was biting its tongue.
Dantes broke the quiet with a drawl.
"So. Why was your estate on fire?"
Alberta blinked, caught off-guard.
"We… still don't know."
He didn't look up.
"How convenient."
"It's the truth."
"Mm," Dantes muttered, wringing the cloth tighter.
"And I'm the Archbishop of Varithiel."
Her brow furrowed.
"Places like Montagne don't just go up in flames, princess. Not unless someone's hiding something…"
He looked up, voice cool.
"Or trying to start a war."
Alberta didn't respond. Her silence said enough.
"And your father," he added, tone sharpening,
"let Mercedes vanish without raising hell. Doesn't that itch at you just a little?"
She stiffened.
"He wouldn't abandon her."
Dantes shrugged.
"Not on purpose, sure. But people do all kinds of stupid things in the name of duty."
He tossed the cloth aside and stared into the fire.
"Jesmeurdam took the blame for the prince's death, right?" she said softly. "They called it assassination."
His shoulders tensed—just a fraction. Then:
"Yeah," he said.
"I've heard the bedtime version."
She tilted her head.
"You sound like you don't believe it."
"Oh, I believe someone died." His voice was low, laced with irony. "Just not the story they printed on the scrolls."
He turned toward her, firelight catching the edge of his smirk.
"Tell me, what exactly would Jesmeurdam gain by murdering a crown prince? A one-way ticket to becoming everyone's favorite scapegoat?"
Alberta touched the amulet at her neck. Its light pulsed once.
"My mother was from Jesmeurdam," she said. "So was Duke Aslac's blood."
Dantes gave a humorless laugh.
"Huh. Then maybe the kingdom blamed for killing the prince was also busy raising the person meant to fix it."
She blinked, caught off guard by the weight of that.
But he didn't clarify. He only muttered, half to himself:
"Funny how the world works when everyone's playing their own rigged game."
Alberta's voice dropped, uncertain.
"If Jesmeurdam really did kill him… why am I still here?"
Dantes leaned forward slightly, staring into the flame.
"That's the question, isn't it?"
The fire crackled. Wind shifted through the trees.
Then Alberta frowned.
"Dantes…"
He looked at her.
"…You're not bleeding anymore."
"What?"
She pointed.
"Your side. That stab wound—it's gone."
He glanced down. His shirt was torn, the fabric stained… but his skin underneath?
Clean. Smooth. Not even a scar.
"…Well that's new," he muttered.
Alberta scooted closer, alarmed.
"You were hurt. I saw it. You were—"
"Bleeding out and full of bad decisions?" he cut in.
"Yeah. I remember."
He lifted his shirt, poking at the unmarked skin.
"No pain. No scar. Not even a 'get well soon' note."
The amulet at her throat pulsed again.
She swallowed. "You think… the Wane did this?"
Dantes snorted.
"Unless you've got magic hands I don't know about—yeah. I'm betting on the creepy death fog."
Her voice wavered. "But why would it help you?"
His eyes darkened. The smirk faded.
"…Because I think it wants to see what I'll do next."
And for a moment, the fire between them didn't feel like fire at all.
It felt like a test.
---
Dantes didn't move.
The fire crackled, and the fog around them thickened—curling like smoke with intent.
Then he heard it.
Not with his ears.
With something deeper.
A voice.
"Not yet. But you will burn them, won't you?"
His gaze flicked toward the treeline, but there was nothing there. Just trees. Just fog. Just the weight pressing in on his chest like a memory refusing to stay buried.
"You've come this far. Bled this long. Why stop now?"
The flames flared for a second, then died back into a low smolder. Alberta didn't seem to hear it—she was still watching him, concern written between her brows.
"Dantes?" she asked.
He blinked, jaw tense. "Nothing. Just the wind being dramatic."
But even as he said it, his hand drifted to where the wound used to be. The skin still felt warm—wrong.
"We took your pain. Not your purpose."
"Endure. And we will show you the truth."
The whisper faded, but its presence clung to him like ash.
He forced a smile.
"Good news—I'm indestructible. Bad news? The forest's trying to talk me into arson."
Alberta gave him a look that was half alarmed, half exasperated. "That's not funny."
"I wasn't joking," he muttered.
She hesitated, then sat beside him—close enough that her shoulder brushed his.
"I don't know what this means," she said softly, "but… if something is keeping you alive, there has to be a reason."
Dantes didn't answer. Not right away.
Because the worst part wasn't that something had healed him.
The worst part was that he didn't feel relieved.
He felt chosen.
And he wasn't sure if that was a blessing—or a curse.