Cold stone pressed against Dante's back.
The cell smelled of damp and old fear—sweat soaked into walls that had learned too many names and forgotten them just as quickly. His clothes were gone. Not torn. Taken. Laid somewhere beyond reach. The guards had searched him for marks, brands, signs of allegiance—anything that might explain him away. They found nothing.
Dante sat with his knees pulled to his chest, arms bound, jaw locked tight. He did not cry. Not because he was brave—but because he was sixteen, and sixteen-year-old boys believed crying meant surrender.
One thought returned again and again, small and stubborn.
I hope the girl made it home.
Boots echoed beyond the bars. Voices. Quick. Businesslike.
"The Duke's daughter has been returned."
A pause.
"Unharmed."
The ropes were cut without ceremony. His clothes were thrown at him. No apology followed. Truth, it seemed, required no courtesy.
"Go," a guard muttered.
Dante dressed with shaking hands and stepped back into daylight.
The village saw him before he saw it. Eyes turned. Whispers followed. Then laughter—surprised, relieved, unkind in the way relief often is.
"There he is. Our hero."
Dante kept walking.
Each step felt heavier than the last. He caught smiles he didn't know how to return, heard jokes he pretended not to hear. He laughed when expected, dipped his head when someone clapped his shoulder, let the embarrassment burn its way out of him slowly.
He didn't run. He didn't hide.
By the time he reached his home, the noise of the village had dulled into something distant.
His sisters were the first to reach him, arms wrapping tight around his waist, faces pressed into his clothes like they needed to make sure he was real. His mother came next.
She said nothing at first—only held him, fingers digging into his shoulders, breath unsteady against his neck. When she finally pulled back, her eyes were red, her voice barely there.
"Don't ever do that again."
Dante nodded.
The forge fire burned late that night.
After the work was done, after the house had quieted and the weight of the day had settled into his bones, his father called him over. No crowd. No witnesses.
He placed an old badge into Dante's palm—its edges worn smooth by time, its meaning heavier than its metal.
"If you're going to be foolish," his father said, voice low, "at least be honest."
Dante closed his fingers around it.
"Yes, sir."
◆ Scene Cut: Duke's Mansion ◆
The Duke's house did not laugh.
The table was set, food untouched. Too many voices spoke at once, all circling the same point. The girl sat still among them, hands folded, eyes lowered.
A new maid stood at her side. The old one was led away.
As she passed, she did not struggle. She did not plead. She only looked once—long enough for the girl to see what had been taken from her.
Not anger. Not fear.
Something quieter. Something that would stay.
The girl looked away.
Later, alone in her room, she stood by the window, staring out at a world that suddenly felt farther than it had that morning.
Far across the village, a boy lay beneath an open sky, a badge clenched in his hand, dreaming of becoming someone strong enough to make the world fair.
They did not see each other.
But something had already begun to pull tight between them.