The horse moved with uncanny purpose, its hooves crushing frost-laden leaves beneath them. Kael hadn't given it direction—yet it ran as if it knew exactly where to go.
Strange.
Kael studied the beast's powerful frame, its obsidian coat shimmering faintly in the moonlight. "Hmm… you're a beautiful horse," he mused. "What should I name you?"
A voice cut through the night, sharp and dripping with sarcasm.
"I already have a name, idiot."
Kael stiffened. His grip tightened on the reins as his eyes swept the skeletal forest. "Who's speaking? Show yourself!"
A long, exasperated sigh. "Oh, for—look down, you absolute moron. It's me. The horse you're riding."
Kael stared at the back of the stallion's head.
"...Horses can't talk."
"Wow. Astute observation. Normally, no, they can't. But I'm special." The horse—Dante, apparently—flicked his ears dismissively. "The house you ran from? That was my owner's. He… experimented on me. Gave me this voice. And a lot more." A pause. "I'll show you, if you survive long enough. Which, given how you were getting manhandled back there, isn't guaranteed. So. Who are you?"
Kael hesitated, scanning the trees again. No demons. No more talking animals. Just the wind and the distant howl of something unseen.
"...Kael."
"Hmph. Not a bad name. I'm Dante."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rhythmic thud of hooves. Then—
"What happened to your owner?" Kael asked.
Dante's gait hitched, just for a step. "He was researching something. Something about what happened a thousand years ago." A bitter chuckle. "Last time he rode me, he was muttering about having 'solved it all.' Next day? Gone. No note. No corpse. Just… gone."
Kael's jaw clenched. A thousand years. The number hung between them like a blade.
Out of nowhere, Dante snorted. "By the way, you never asked where we're going."
Kael blinked. "I assumed you knew."
"I do. But I expected a human to at least pretend they had a plan." Dante tossed his mane. "We're heading to the nearest village. Assuming you don't get us killed first."
Kael ignored the jab. "You saved me back there. At the cottage."
"Please. I was passing through. Needed to grab supplies before leaving." Dante's voice dripped with false sweetness. "Then I saw you getting your ass handed to you by three scrawny demons, and, well. Felt a little bad."
Kael's eye twitched.
"Do you know these lands well?" he ground out.
Dante laughed—a deep, rumbling sound. "Do I know them? I've walked every inch of this cursed continent more times than you've taken a piss. Name a landmark. I'll take you there." He shot Kael a look over his shoulder, eyes glinting like smoldering coals. "Now shut up. We're picking up speed."
Before Kael could retort, Dante moved.
The stallion's body erupted in ghostly blue flames, his flesh melting away until only a skeleton wreathed in fire remained. Yet the heat didn't burn—it warmed, driving back the biting cold as the world blurred around them.
Kael barely had time to seize Dante's reins before they shot forward, faster than any living horse could run. Trees became streaks of shadow. The wind screamed in his ears. And ahead—somewhere in the dark—their destination waited.
A village. Answers.
And, if fate was kind, a way to make the demons bleed.
Somewhere on this hellish earth, there existed a place untouched by reality's decay—a pocket of serenity where cherry blossoms drifted through eternal twilight. On a velvet swing suspended between two ancient trees, Veylin lounged, his silver hair catching the dying light. A flute rested against his lips, its melody weaving through the air like a whispered secret.
Then came the interruption: boots crunching on gravel. A man clad in a black suit emerged, his gloved hands clenched.
"Sir," he said, voice taut. "Why don't you tell Kael the truth?"
Veylin's fingers stilled the flute. His violet eyes—opened lazily.
"The world is a stage, Charles," he murmured, smiling. "And we are all tragic actors. Some simply play their roles… better than others." A petal landed on his knee; he flicked it away. "This is merely Act Two. Wait. Watch."
Charles exhaled through his nose. "He'll die."
"Or he'll rewrite the script." Veylin lifted the flute again. "Now, let me finish my song."