The dining hall was wrapped in a spectral stillness, every corner steeped in magical, dancing shadows. At the tall windows, crimson curtains hung heavy like funeral drapes, smothering any trace of outside light and allowing only a pale, diffuse glow to filter through. Around the ceiling, ghostly flames swayed slowly and rhythmically, like restless souls, outlining the entire room in a milky gleam, suspended between life and death.
Well, they probably are restless souls for real.
Cragar, the god of the dead, sat imposingly at the head of the table, his gaze absent and distant. He wore a black suit adorned with various silver threads, making the attire fit for both battle and a noble evening—an impeccable reflection of how the deity presented himself. His red hair was pulled back and fell over his shoulders without catching on the obsidian chair beneath him.
Beside him sat Rutia. The goddess of the occult and illusions moved with a calm grace, an elegance that bordered on unsettling, her face perpetually hidden beneath a series of bandages that joined with her hood to form a stylized mask.
The two created a contrasting image due to the technicality of their masks—one classical and Italian in style, the other innovative and hardly definable as a mask at all.
They're quite cute, though…
Dahlia sat across from them, watching the two deities in silence, feeling a heavy pressure from the unreal stillness, as if even words had been petrified by the room's atmosphere.
"Then, Dahlia, why don't you tell your father and me about the last few days you've spent on the surface?"
The young lady hesitated. "I don't think my father would be interested in such trivial matters, divine Rutia, so I must decline your gracious offer."
Cragar dabbed his lips with a handkerchief, keeping his eyes closed.
"You're mistaken. I'm very interested."
Dahlia nodded instantly and began to speak in a low voice, almost whispering, as if the memories of Lilies Park carried an unbearable weight, so heavy it gave her a migraine.
I've never told them anything about the park, but if they're truly watching me, then it means they already know most of it.
She told them about walking with Marina, about how time seemed to freeze among the flowers and laughter. But that serenity now felt distant, like a dream unraveling at dawn. Cragar seemed deeply interested in the story, to the point of asking her several questions about Marina.
"Are you aware of her family situation?"
"Yes, although she often avoids talking about it. But Marina isn't like the other Blendbreeds. In my time, nobles treated those of different ranks with disdain and arrogance. She is kind and caring to me. To everyone, actually."
Rutia laughed. "We noticed. Cragar was telling me how she had grown close to Shirei."
"It was strange for me too," she murmured, with a faint smile, her eyes fixed on the glass in front of her.
Having brought up the subject, she then began to speak of her half-brother.
"I haven't seen Shirei in who knows how long. I didn't even say goodbye when he left with the Equinox Flowers. The mission was supposed to last only a few days, but they haven't returned yet."
Her voice betrayed a note of worry, barely muffled by guilt.
"But he still hasn't come back."
A melancholic shadow crossed her face as she lowered her gaze. In an almost imperceptible tone, she added,
"I hope he's okay."
The god of the dead sat across from her, observing in silence as he continued eating, impassive. His presence exuded an eternal indifference, as if the pain of mortals were merely another shade in the world over which he ruled.
That, however, was only an illusion for the masses. Dahlia knew her father was analyzing the best way to lift her spirits. He wasn't truly indifferent to her feelings.
Yeah, he's really strange, just like Shirei.
Beside her, the goddess of illusions smiled in an unsettling, almost amused way, as if that pain were a mystery waiting to be unraveled.
"The past teaches us, Dahlia, but the weight you carry won't belong to you forever," she said, her voice sharp.
The girl tried to hide the guilt crawling inside her, but it was impossible. The thought of Lilies Park and Shirei burned in her chest like an open wound. She knew it had all started there—the day she used her powers on her brother, pushing him toward a darkness he should never have known again. The sudden attack on Aena, the goddess of love, had been the first sign. From that moment, everything had spiraled into a series of events that had left her with an unbearable burden.
Salix, the dark angel, Marina's wound, the destruction of the House of Ognia's children, Aena's fury… It all began with my childishness. The blame falls on me.
Her hands clenched nervously around her napkin as she gathered the courage to meet Cragar and Rutia's eyes. She knew neither of them had anything to gain from sitting there listening to her. Her father had called her there to comfort her and offer a sense of belonging—something she had slowly started to lose. Despite the good intentions, that lunch had become just another moment of brooding in solitude.
She stopped speaking and, without realizing it, her thoughts drifted back to that fateful day. She saw with vivid clarity the shadows stretching among the lilies, and her brother's distorted face—an enraged expression hidden beneath a mask of impassive calm. Her mind conjured the image of the son of Tefine, his dreamlike eyes and mischievous smile concealing a secret too dangerous to be spoken.
"Yes, I'm a god too," he had said, "and I'm not the only one here."
Remembering those words made her sink into her chair. She felt the weight of the secret coiling like a cold grip in her chest, reminding her that perhaps, behind those tragic and mysterious events, there was far more than she could understand.
She lowered her gaze; the food on her plate had lost all taste. Hunger had abandoned her, overwhelmed by the bitterness and guilt that wrapped around her like an inescapable fog.
The two deities exchanged a subtle glance of understanding, as if those words had stirred a shared awareness—one they preferred to keep to themselves. Without saying a word, Cragar took the obsidian knife and cut a piece of his dark meat. His teeth sank into the food with a calmness that bordered on cruel, while Rutia smiled with the air of someone who knew far more than she cared to reveal.
The poor girl—who wasn't truly that young nor that small—remained trapped in the silence of that dark hall. She wondered if she had done the right thing by accepting her father's invitation.
After a few minutes, the bandaged goddess broke the stillness. She leaned toward Cragar, her face close to his ear in a whisper so soft it was like a thread of smoke. Her words were no more than a breath, impossible for Dahlia to hear, though she watched in silence, trying to catch even a sliver of their exchange. When the goddess straightened up, she turned to the mortal with her usual enigmatic smile—almost a sneer. Then she turned again, reaching a hand into the still air before her.
Suddenly, the atmosphere shimmered, warping like a veil of silk stirred by the wind. A cross-shaped fissure opened in the nothingness, its lines gleaming and jagged like a wound carved into the fabric of reality itself. The mark widened, and a dark portal began to unfold, revealing a gateway to the Interworld—an emerald-colored abyss of distant whispers. Rutia stepped through in a single motion, leaving behind a trail of pale blue particles that vanished the moment the portal sealed itself shut, like a suture.
Dahlia looked away, composing herself, and turned toward her father, but the words died in her throat. A stifling silence fell over them, heavy and cold like the shadow of the world of the dead. Cragar exhaled deeply, breaking the stillness, then stood, with a weariness so subtle it seemed rooted in the depths of his being.
Without looking at her, he moved in silent steps toward one of the tall glass windows with crimson curtains hanging like the tattered edges of a grim stage curtain. He stopped there, staring outside: the Underworld. Before him stretched a desolate expanse—an unmoving plain of death.
Dahlia felt an unrelenting loneliness in her father's gaze. A god enshrouded in the dominion that was both his kingdom, his burden, and his prison. The scene hung suspended in that moment, without words, immersed in an apathy that made the room feel even emptier.
The god was tired of hiding secrets.
His daughter remained seated, a growing discomfort pressing on her in the room's heavy air. She tried to break the tension, forcing herself to find the words.
"Father…" she began, but her voice trembled slightly.
Cragar gave her an unreadable look before cutting her off in a grave tone.
"You give me much concern, Dahlia. You have since the day you were born."
The girl immediately lowered her gaze, as if those words had struck her to the core. "I beg your pardon."
Cragar turned toward her, and for a moment, his face softened.
"It is not necessary. The blame is not yours. I am the only one to whom it can be attributed."
The god's gentle tone wrapped her in a bitter sadness, leaving behind the familiar thought of being a problem—a burden and a source of responsibility.
"Shirei… the same," he continued. "The truth is that I try to be a good father, despite my position," he paused, as if that reflection took effort, "but it is difficult—exceedingly difficult, nearly impossible."
Dahlia rose from her chair and stepped closer. "Father, you must not despair. I am honored to share your blood and to be your descendant."
"I am not. I would have preferred my legacy hadn't ruined your lives. And yet here you are, suffering the consequences of my choices."
Dahlia moved even closer, her heart beating faster in her chest, and asked, "May I hold your hand?"
Cragar looked at her, and a faint smile appeared on his face.
"Of course."
When she intertwined her fingers with his, she felt a strange sensation: his skin was cold, soft, and patient—it almost seemed to thank her for the unexpected touch, as if it were a rare gesture.
"Do you regret the choices you made, Father?"
The god remained silent for a long moment. Finally, he answered in a calm tone, "Only some. But I would do almost everything the same way again."
With a sudden surge of affection and comfort, Dahlia placed her other hand on the immortal's shoulder.
"I believe you are a wonderful father."
Cragar slightly shook his head. For the first time in her life, the girl saw the god break his constant solemnity—he seemed almost human. His words came as little more than a whisper:"That's not true."
Dahlia deliberately sought his gaze until her eyes met his deep violet irises—the same she had admired for days in the eyes of her half-brother. Noticing that similarity brought her a quiet sense of comfort. She imagined speaking to Shirei for a moment. She reflected on how alike they were, even if neither would ever admit it.
"Yes, you are," she finally murmured softly. "You always care for us, even though our lives mean little compared to yours."
Cragar lowered his gaze, breaking that moment of intimacy. He could not bear the sight of his daughter's bright, vulnerable blue eyes. Suddenly, he felt the same sensation he had experienced the day he made the fateful mistake—when he had let himself be seduced by her mother. Over a century had passed, and yet the god of the dead still struggled to forget that isolated event.
He had done it with a specific purpose, back then too vengeful to think clearly. He was ashamed of himself.
"The other deities have far more children," he said, trying to drive away his thoughts through conversation, as if to justify her compliment. "That's why they cannot care for them properly."
Dahlia shook her head and, with a firm but respectful tone, replied, "You are lying, and you know it well. You are always ready to support us when necessary. Your invitation to dinner is proof of that."
Cragar seemed unconvinced. He couldn't see it with his own eyes, he couldn't believe in his own qualities. The girl didn't know the whole story; otherwise, she wouldn't have treated him that way. He kept telling himself that.
The god of the dead looked away and took a few steps back, loosening their grip.
Dahlia let him go, respecting his need for space but watching him with concern. "I'm sure that if Shirei were here, he would agree with me," she added with a shy smile.
"Shirei…" he murmured, losing himself for a moment in his thoughts. "I wonder if he is well, too. At the moment, I can't follow him."
The girl felt a tightness in her chest. "What happened?"
"He's traveling through the Temporal Rifts to halt the enemy's advance. My hounds cannot stay with him; they carry my icore."
Dahlia furrowed her brow, trying to understand the obstacle. "What's the problem?"
"The Temporal Rifts are Rakion's domain. I can't let him discover my presence. So, I can't know his situation," he sighed, his face now marked by tangible worry.
The young woman remained still, feeling the weight of her brother's mission hanging like a giant shadow. Her father's worried gaze was a sign to her that even gods were not immune to fear and uncertainty, and perhaps, despite his divine nature, Cragar was more like them than he wanted to admit.
She still felt confused, unable to fully grasp the reason for such caution. After all, they were deities, but she understood that if her father didn't act, it was only because of the importance he placed on her half-brother's safety.
She tried to show him trust and reassure him as best she could. "Shirei will be fine. You know him better than I do and understand the extent of his powers."
Cragar looked at her, his violet eyes clearly filled with fear. "Shirei is also very fragile; it would take just one word to make him collapse."
"You can't be serious."
The man closed his eyes for a moment, as if tired, then nodded slowly. "It's the truth."
His words left a silent void in the room. Dahlia pondered, trying to find a way to ease the tension. "Then just don't say that word. If the enemy doesn't know it, there's no need to worry."
Surprised by her optimism, the dark deity gave a slight smile with his lips. "You didn't get this trait from me."
For a moment, it seemed as if the faint light in the room softened.
Dahlia smiled back and said, "Nor from my mother, I'm afraid."
At those words, however, Cragar seemed to change imperceptibly, as if he had touched on a memory or thought he preferred to avoid. The sweetness in his gaze vanished, replaced by a darker, more distant expression. He turned without saying a word, heading toward the dining room exit, and with a silent nod, invited her to follow him.
"Father, will you tell me the whole story? I want to be aware of the situation. Is there a war on the horizon?"
"You will know everything in due time. Now come with me."
She did as she was told, keeping a few steps behind as they walked through the wide, silent corridors of the Grand Manor. After a long walk, almost a tedious pilgrimage for the mortal, the god spoke, his voice little more than a murmur. "The enemy knows. He knows the keyword to make Shirei collapse."
She stopped for a moment, surprised. "Damn it…!" she exclaimed before realizing she had said it out loud. She glanced at her father and hurried to add, with a nervous laugh, "I apologize for my coarse manners."
But the king of the dead didn't even seem to have noticed the word, which made Dahlia doubt the sensitivity of his hearing. In truth, the god of the dead was well aware of his daughter's comment but paid it no mind: it seemed to him an insignificant nuance, far from the curses and heart-wrenching laments he received daily from the spirits of the dead passing through the Underworld. In fact, he found Dahlia far too polite and composed for the twenty-first century. A slight smile touched his lips as they walked. He was aware that Dahlia had been born and raised in a different era, distant from the brutality of the past he and the other deities had experienced, but also from the decay of post-technology civilization.
Perfectly in between, neither one nor the other, almost pure.
The girl nervously adjusted her hair, trying to sort out the confused thoughts in her mind. "What can we do, then?"
"You will stay until I can be sure you are ready."
"Ready for what? I… I'm not capable. I only make mistakes, in every field," she replied, the memory of Lilies Park resurfacing like a persistent trauma.
You know what happened because of me.
"That mistake, as you call it, comes from inexperience. You don't know how to control your powers because you are terrified of them."
Cragar paused to look at Dahlia. He saw in her reflections of himself, his adolescence and his flaws. A sort of regret washed over him. If before he had been struck by the traits that linked her to her mother, now he clearly saw the elements she had inherited from him.
He placed a hand on the girl's shoulder, a reassuring gesture he seldom made, and guided her toward a new room.
"So what must I do?" the young woman asked, curiosity and apprehension mingling in her voice.
The black doors opened, and the two entered the throne room. The environment was so majestic it took her breath away: the walls were decorated with ancient tapestries, and the atmosphere was steeped in an aura of power filled with greenish particles. An endless line of spirits began just in front of them and ended about a meter from the black throne of the king of the Underworld. Rows of armored skeletons supervised everything, awaiting their sovereign. A modest dark seat stood to the right of the god's, waiting to be occupied.
Her heartbeat quickened.
"To turn your powers into a weapon at your command rather than a source of fear…" the god announced in a solemn voice, "from now on, I will personally train you."