Dante's first breath was a broken, rattling drag of air.
His eyes snapped open.
The world above him wavered—trees bending in and out of focus as if seen underwater. His heartbeat pounded inside his skull, slow and uneven, each throb a spike of molten pain.
Everything hurt.
Every cell.
Every nerve.
Every breath.
He lay sprawled on the cold forest floor, chest heaving as though he had run for days. The sky spun in sluggish circles above him.
Then—
A shadow leaned over him.
A familiar scent.
A trembling hand cupping his cheek.
"Dante… Dante, look at me," a voice whispered—sharp, urgent, quivering.
His mother.
Her outline swam into view—wild hair, dirt-smeared cheeks, eyes wide with terror. In her hand, clutched so tightly her knuckles were white, was a small vial filled with a thick, shimmering liquid that glowed faintly even in the dim forest light.
She pressed it to his lips.
"Dante—drink up. Drink up now."
