The boy who would later be remembered as Dante Luther II did not begin his days with ambition.
He began them with work.
The mines lay beyond the village, carved into the earth like an old wound that never healed. Each morning, men descended into it before the fog lifted, faces already grey with dust, hands wrapped in cloth and habit. Dante was among them now—eighteen years old, shoulders broader than they had any right to be, palms scarred in ways no forge could teach.
The boy who once ran barefoot through the streets was gone.
Hard labor had taken him apart and rebuilt him slowly, honestly. His back ached constantly. His hands no longer trembled when they bled. Strength had not come as glory, but as necessity—and necessity, he had learned, did not care for dreams.
He worked because he remembered.
He remembered the weight of a girl in his arms that he could not carry far enough. He remembered the shame of being held down by men stronger than him. He remembered how easy it had been to mistake fear for righteousness.
So he dug. And lifted. And endured.
It was his last week at the mines.
The men knew it. They clapped him on the shoulder, offered rough congratulations, half-jests about army boots and shorter days. Some envied him. Others warned him. None wished him ill.
"Don't forget us when you're wearing steel," one of them said.
Dante only nodded. He had learned not to promise things the world could take away.
On his walk home that evening, he passed through the market square.
The carriage was there again.
Black-lacquered wood. Iron fittings polished to a dull shine. Horses groomed to perfection, guards stationed with the quiet patience of men who answered only to higher names. It did not belong here. Things like that rarely did.
People watched from a distance. No one approached. Curiosity was a luxury; survival was not.
"Duke's daughter," someone whispered.
Dante barely slowed.
Nobles did not come to villages like this to shop. They summoned merchants, not dirt under their shoes. Whatever reason had brought her here was not his concern. He had learned what caring could cost.
The next morning, he rose early.
He stopped by the notice board out of habit—less hope than routine now. He needed new clothes before reporting to the army. Something that fit properly. Perhaps a blade of his own.
The board was unchanged. Mining shifts. Field work. Guard rotations.
And still, in the corner, faded but unremoved—
Mercenaries wanted.
Payment upon return.
100 silver.
He did not stop this time. He turned away before the idea could speak.
The mines claimed him for the day, and when he emerged, sore and exhausted, the sun was already dipping low.
That was when he saw the carriage again.
This time, it stood outside his home.
The world narrowed.
Guards at the door. Boots clean. Hands resting near hilts. Not inside—never inside—but close enough that their presence pressed against the walls.
Dante's first thought was not for himself.
It was for his family.
He crossed the distance at a run, every muscle taut, mind racing through possibilities he did not want to name. If this turned ugly, he would not let it reach them. He had already decided that much before he reached the door.
Inside, the air was thick with silence.
His sisters stood near the hearth, clutching each other. His mother hovered close, face pale, hands folded too tightly. His father stood rigid, as if afraid movement alone might shatter something unseen.
At the table sat a woman.
She was young. Veiled. Dressed in dark, fine cloth that caught the light without demanding it. Her posture was flawless—neither relaxed nor tense. Behind her stood a maid, eyes sharp, expression unreadable.
Dante halted.
His sisters broke first, running to him, arms wrapping around his waist. He held them automatically, eyes never leaving the woman at the table.
His father turned, voice low and strained.
"What did you do?"
Dante swallowed. "I don't know."
The maid shifted, clearly preparing to speak—but the seated woman raised a gloved hand. The room stilled.
"I apologize for the intrusion," the woman said. Her voice was calm, educated, carrying the quiet certainty of someone unused to being interrupted. "I am Fiona Alexandre Rustleheart, of House Rustleheart."
The name struck like a bell.
Dante straightened instantly, pulling his sisters gently behind him. He bowed—awkward, imperfect, but sincere.
"My lady," he said. "Forgive me. I should have greeted you properly."
She inclined her head, just enough to acknowledge the effort.
"I have been searching for you," she continued. "For some time."
Dante felt his heartbeat in his throat.
"You saved me once," she said, her gaze steady on his. "Years ago. I have not forgotten."
The maid bristled at his silence, but Fiona spoke before she could.
"I am offering you a position," she said. "Service to my household. Guard duty. Should you prove capable, advancement would follow."
It was not a request.
It was an offer that could not truly be refused.
Dante hesitated—just a breath, just enough to be dangerous.
"I… would ask for time to consider it."
The maid's eyes flashed.
But Fiona only studied him, something like curiosity flickering behind her veil.
"I wasn't asking you."
The room felt colder.
"Report to the Rustleheart estate in three days," she added. "I will expect you."
She stood.
The guards moved aside without a word. The door closed behind her with a sound far too final for something so quiet.
No one spoke for a long moment.
That night, after the forge had cooled and the house settled into shadows, Dante sat alone outside, staring at the darkening sky.
Was that truly the same girl?
The one who had laughed softly in the market.
The one who had accepted half his bread without question.
This girl felt different. Heavier. Like someone already carrying a house on her shoulders.
He flexed his hands, still aching from the mines.
Whatever awaited him beyond that gate, he knew one thing with certainty—
He was stepping into a world where kindness and power did not mean the same thing. And once you crossed that threshold, there was no returning unchanged.