DANTE
Dawn light filtered through his study windows. Dante stood alone at his desk, one hand braced on the enchanted surface while the other moved through the glowing projection of the ward network.
Red failure points pulsed across the magical construct. Soul-flow routes corrupted. Junction points compromised, sabotage exposed in detail.
Maps and tactical reports covered every surface. Scout intelligence scrawled in haste, troop positions that kept shifting, power readings from the failing wards that worsened with each update. Casualty projections. Numbers representing souls who would cease to exist if this went wrong.
The sheer scope of what they were attempting should have felt impossible.
Instead, it felt necessary.
His shadows spread across the floor, carrying reports between stacks, reorganizing documents, holding open reference materials at relevant pages, lifting a scout report, sliding it across the desk, then retrieving the next.
Helpful. Obedient. Betraying nothing of the restlessness bleeding through his connection to them.
He'd left Brynn sleeping in his chambers when Lord Aldric arrived before dawn with fresh scout reports. She'd been in a deep sleep, injured wrists curled against the pillow. Face peaceful for the first time in days. Her body surrendered to rest after everything. The torture. The gateway activation. The night that had left marks on both of them he could still feel.
The bite on her shoulder. The bruises on her hips where he'd gripped too hard. The rawness in his own chest where her nails had raked desperate lines.
He'd wanted to stay. Watch over her while she recovered. Keep his power wrapped around her while she healed.
But Caelum was harvesting souls while Dante played lovesick guardian. Every moment spent watching her sleep was another soul being processed. Another victim stripped of everything that made them individual.
So he'd left. Had pressed a kiss to her temple, gentle enough not to wake her, and retreated to coordinate the assault that might save them all.
Four battlefields. Four simultaneous strikes. Precise timing required across multiple realms while the ward network screamed warnings at him.
No room for error. No margin for sentiment.
Lord Aldric had reported moments ago. Their forces were assembling faster than anticipated. Vex's court gathering in the shadow-ways. Thessa's spirits moving into position. Seraphina's warriors preparing for deployment.
The pieces moving into place.
The timeline had compressed from days to mere hours.
He moved his hand through the projection again, tracing the assault points. Looking for the flaw in his strategy. The weakness he'd missed. The variable that would get them all killed.
Simple in theory. Catastrophic if executed poorly.
If the timing was off by even minutes. If Seraphina's assault stalled. If Vex's hunger overwhelmed his control. If Thessa couldn't reach the victims in time.
If Brynn couldn't close the gateway before Caelum stopped her.
If he lost her.
His jaw clenched. Shadows wound tighter around his feet, responding to the spike of fear that shot through him.
She wasn't allowed to die because he'd been too slow or too weak or too distracted by the way she'd looked in his bed, tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but his marks. She'd survive this. They'd survive this.
He'd make sure of it even if he had to burn every other realm to ash.
The floor shuddered beneath his feet. Another ward-stone failing somewhere in the outer reaches. He felt it through his connection to the realm like a tooth being pulled. The pain was distant but undeniable.
His domain was dying. Time running out.
Movement in the corridor outside.
His power lifted from the maps instantly, reaching toward the door before he registered the sound. Quick footsteps approaching. That particular rhythm he'd learned to recognize. The cadence of someone who moved like she was still working jobs. Light on her feet. Careful with weight distribution. Ready to shift direction at a moment's notice.
