Dante died with his eyes open.
One second he was staring at the purple sky of the Underworld training grounds, magical exhaustion tearing through his body like blades, the shadows he'd attempted to command writhing beyond his control. His consciousness fragmented, splintering into pieces as the connection to the Void deepened beyond what his young body could sustain.
Then nothing.
Absolute fucking nothing.
Not darkness. Not light. Not cold or hot. Just... absence. Like being erased from existence itself. The void that House Valac drew their power from swallowed him whole, dissolving boundaries between what was and what could be.
Until something else arrived.
Memories crashed into the empty space like a flood through shattered gates. Images. Sounds. Feelings. Knowledge. A whole goddamn life that didn't belong to this world slamming through the void with impossible force.
Gray skies over concrete. The taste of cheap coffee. The burn of asphalt against skin. Blood pooling from a gut wound. A stranger's face—some punk with a knife—fading as life drained away. A death in a world without magic, without devils, without any of this.
Who the fuck is Elijah?
The pressure built behind Dante's eyes until it felt like his skull would split. Information poured in, memories stacking on memories, identities crashing together like opposing waves. Two lives. Two deaths. Two souls occupying the same space, fighting for dominance in a body that barely had room for one.
The vessel—Dante's physical form—convulsed in response. Pain lanced through every nerve as consciousness tried to anchor itself to flesh again. The soft press of expensive sheets materialized against skin that felt foreign and familiar simultaneously. The smell of some fancy cologne mixed with antiseptic. The taste of copper.
"Young Master! Can you hear me?"
The voice cut through the chaos. Female. Concerned. Familiar in ways that belonged to Dante's memories while feeling alien to the other consciousness now sharing his space.
Purple eyes forced themselves open, vision swimming before focusing on the face above. A woman leaned over the bed, her expression tight with worry. Long black hair cascaded around her face like a curtain. Red eyes—actual red eyes, glowing with genuine magic—searched his with an intensity that made something in both sets of memories stir with recognition.
Ariel. The name surfaced from Dante's recollections. His maid. His protector. Lady Selene's carefully placed observer.
Another wave of pain crashed through his skull. Memories continued to pour in—devil society, family politics, shadow powers, Void Sight—each one feeling more real than the last while competing with images of a completely different existence. Street fights. Human technology. A mundane death that had somehow led to this impossible situation.
The boundaries between who Dante was and who Elijah had been blurred, then began to dissolve.
Dante's hand—their hand—reached up, trembling, and touched Ariel's cheek. Her skin burned hot against the palm.
"Am I in heaven?" The voice that emerged sounded strange—Dante's deeper, smoother tone carrying an edge of something else, some fragment of personality that didn't quite belong.
Before she could answer, he pulled her down and pressed his lips against hers.
The action came from pure instinct—a desperate need for something solid, something real to anchor consciousness to this body, to this reality. To prove existence hadn't been completely erased. That the void hadn't won.
Her lips stiffened in shock, then softened. A small, surprised sound escaped her throat, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she melted into it, her hands bracing against his chest before sliding up to his shoulders.
"Young Master," she breathed against his mouth, pulling back just enough to speak. Her red eyes had darkened, pupils dilated. "When did you become so..."
He didn't let her finish. He kissed her again, harder this time, driven by hunger that went beyond physical desire. Something primal and desperate, born from two souls trying to claim the same space. She responded in kind, climbing onto the bed, straddling him without breaking the connection.
Heat radiated from her body as she pressed against him. Her hands tangled in black hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. The pain in his head receded slightly, replaced by a different kind of pressure.
"Your eyes," she whispered, pulling back to stare at him. "They're..."
He flipped their positions in one smooth motion—pure Dante muscle memory combined with Elijah's street-fighting instincts—pinning her beneath him.
When he looked down at her, something strange happened. Void Sight activated without conscious command, and he could see... everything. The flow of magic through her body. The fire affinity burning brightest in her core. The wind magic swirling around it. The way her energy responded to his.
And with it came hunger. Not sexual, though that was there too. Something deeper. More fundamental. The need to take, to absorb, to make her power his.
Essence Drain.
The knowledge of what was happening came from Dante's inherited understanding, but the desperate need to use it felt like it came from somewhere else entirely—from the void where both souls had met, where boundaries between self and other had ceased to exist.
He pressed his mouth to hers again, and this time he felt it—energy flowing from her into him. Warm and vibrant, tasting of cinnamon and ozone. The pain in his head subsided with each passing second, replaced by clarity and strength.
Ariel whimpered beneath him, her back arching, fingers clutching at his shoulders. Not in pain—in pleasure. Her breathing grew heavy, labored. Her magic surged and pulsed, flowing into him in rhythmic waves.
The haze surrounding his thoughts cleared. Memories settled into place, no longer fighting for dominance but integrating, becoming a cohesive whole. The street-smart fighter who'd clawed his way up from nothing. The devil noble with shadow powers and a legacy to uphold.
Both. Neither. More.
He jerked upright, breaking the connection. Ariel lay beneath him, hair splayed across the pillows, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Her lips were swollen, a flush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.
"Young—Young Master," she gasped, struggling to compose herself. "What... what was that?"
Dante stared at his hands. They looked the same—aristocratic, unmarred—but they felt different. Stronger. More connected to the magic flowing through this body. The shadows in the room responded to his presence, stretching toward him like eager pets.
"I don't know," he lied, moving off her to sit on the edge of the bed. "I just... needed something to stop the pain."
She sat up slowly, smoothing down her rumpled uniform. Her movements were unsteady, almost drunk. He'd taken a significant amount of her energy—not enough to harm her, but enough that she'd need time to recover.
"You've been unconscious for three days," she said, professional mask slipping back into place despite her disheveled appearance. "Lady Selene has been beside herself with worry. The healers couldn't determine what was wrong."