Bells rang before the sun had fully climbed the rooftops. They always did.
Iron sang next—hammer on anvil, sparks leaping like the brief prayers that never reached heaven. Smoke drifted low between narrow streets, carrying the scent of coal, sweat, and bread just beginning to bake. In this world, boys learned early: grow strong, grow useful, or be forgotten.
Dante Luther was sixteen years old.
He stood barefoot in the forge doorway, sleeves rolled, arms dusted black with soot, listening to his father argue with the fire like it might one day answer back.
"Market first," his father said without looking up. "Then the mining lot. Tell them you're ready."
Dante frowned. "Father, I'm meant for the army. What good is digging holes in stone?"
His mother laughed softly from the table. His two younger sisters joined in. His father finally looked at him.
"Stone builds muscle. Discipline builds men. The army doesn't take boys who dream louder than they work."
Dante scowled but nodded. He always did. He took the coins—10 silver, counted twice—and stepped into the street.
The market was already awake. Vendors shouted prices. Livestock bleated. Somewhere, a preacher warned of judgment with a voice hoarse from doing so every morning. Dante weaved through the crowd, collected the iron stock his father needed, and tucked the bundle under his arm. Before heading home, he stopped where he always did—the notice board.
It stood nailed crooked against the stone wall near the square, layered with parchment—mining shifts, porter work, field hands. Dante scanned them out of habit… then froze. A single posting stood out.
Mercenaries wanted.
Payment upon return.
100 silver.
His breath caught. One hundred silver coins was a sum that could buy years of meals. A future. Armor. A name. He stared longer than he meant to, heart thudding, imagining himself taller, stronger—someone worth remembering. He tore his eyes away. His father would never allow it.
The bells rang again. This time, they sounded wrong.
Shouts rippled through the square. Guards pushed through the crowd, steel glinting, faces tight. People grabbed their children, pulled them close, dragged them indoors.
"Witch hunt," someone whispered.
Another spat on the ground. "Hide the young ones."
Dante felt his stomach twist. Stories said witches favored the young—soft minds, easier to bend. Fear spread faster than fire. No one knew anything, but everyone believed something.
Dante bought bread for supper and turned for home. That's when he saw them.
An old woman stood near the edge of the street, hunched, her grip tight around the wrist of a girl no older than fourteen. The girl wore clothes too fine for the market—dark fabric, well-kept despite the dust. Her hair was braided carefully. Her posture was stiff, controlled. She did not scream. She did not cry. But she resisted.
Dante's heart slammed. Witch.
He didn't shout. Didn't run for help. Stories said witches could still boys with a glance. He followed instead, careful, quiet. The girl stopped struggling. Her eyes went distant.
Dante swallowed hard.
They reached a small house beyond the road, farmland stretching behind it. Time slipped through his fingers. He climbed the chimney, tossed in dried plants and damp leaves. Smoke poured out—coughing, shouting—and the door burst open.
Dante rushed in, wrapped his torn shirt over his mouth, seized the girl, and ran. Only a few steps before his arms burned, legs shaking. He set her down, breath ragged. He realized how weak he truly was—and how hard he was pretending otherwise, because men weren't meant to show it.
"You're safe," he said.
She stared at him, confused rather than afraid. "Why did you do that?" she asked. Her voice was calm. Refined. "Who are you?"
Dante straightened. "Dante Luther. I'll be a general someday."
She laughed softly. "Thank you."
He walked her to the market, pressed half his bread into her hands, and watched her disappear into the crowd. Only then did he remember the guards. His chest tightened.
I should tell them.
That was what one should do, wasn't it? You see danger, you warn those meant to handle it.
Dante looked back toward the road, toward the smoke thinning above the farmhouse roof. He didn't rush in. He circled instead, keeping his distance, watching.
The house stood quiet now. Too quiet.
Then he saw them—royal guards. Steel helms. Cloaks marked with the crest. They stood at the front of the farmhouse, speaking with the old woman. Calmly. Patiently.
Dante frowned.
She's done something to them, he thought immediately. Witches can twist men just as easily.
He waited, pulse hammering, expecting shackles. Swords. Fire. Instead, the guards nodded—and walked away.
Cold crept into his bones.
That's not possible.
He took a step back.
That was when a hand slammed into his collar.
"Got you."
The grip was iron. Dante gasped as he was yanked off balance, boots scraping stone.
"What—wait—I—"
"This one," another guard said, stepping closer, eyes sharp. "Matches the description."
Dante twisted, panic rising. "You don't understand! There's a witch—she took a girl—she—"
His words died when he looked around. The street had emptied. No crowd. No girl. No witnesses. Only guards.
They shoved him forward. His knees struck the ground. Rough hands forced his arms back. Rope bit into his wrists.
"I was trying to help," Dante said, voice breaking now. "She was in danger. I was going to bring you here."
The guard laughed softly. Not kindly.
"That's what they all say."
A hood was pulled over his head. Darkness swallowed him.
The last thing Dante heard was the scrape of boots and the clink of chains—and the realization that doing the right thing did not mean being believed.