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The car slowed as they approached the Astaroth estate. Gothic spires reached toward the purple Underworld sky, their silhouettes stark against the backdrop of eternal twilight. The architecture was classic devil nobility—imposing, ancient, and designed to intimidate visitors. Typical.
Dante straightened his tie, a deep purple that matched his eyes. His mother had insisted on formal attire despite his protests. "The Astaroths appreciate proper protocol," she'd said.
As if he gave a damn about protocol.
"We've arrived, Young Master," Ariel announced from the front seat.
Through the window, he watched servants line up at the estate entrance. A proper welcome for a proper devil noble. He almost laughed.
"Wait here," Dante told Ariel as the door opened. "I won't be long."
She frowned, those crimson eyes narrowing slightly. "I should accompany you."
"For a dinner? I think I can manage a fork without supervision."
"It's my duty to—"
"To follow orders," he cut in, softening the words with a half-smile. "Besides, I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."
Ariel's posture remained rigid, her hands folded neatly in her lap. But he saw the concern in her eyes, the slight tension around her mouth. After their week of... training... she'd grown protective. More than usual.
He leaned back into the car, his hand finding her cheek. Her skin flushed warm beneath his touch—that fire affinity always betraying her emotions.
"I'll be fine," he said, his thumb tracing the outline of her lip. "Just a boring dinner with a magical prodigy. What could possibly go wrong?"
She caught his wrist, her grip firm but gentle. "Be careful. The Astaroth girl is more than she appears."
"So am I."
He stepped out, adjusting his jacket as the carriage door closed behind him. The head butler approached with a formal bow.
"Young Lord Valac, welcome to the Astaroth estate. If you'll follow me..."
Dante nodded, falling into step behind him. The entrance hall soared three stories high, illuminated by floating magical orbs that cast soft, ambient light across marble floors. Portraits of previous Astaroth patriarchs and matriarchs lined the walls, their stern faces watching his progress with painted disapproval.
Probably not fans of the current generation either, he thought.
Instead of leading him to the main dining hall, the butler guided him through a series of corridors to a smaller, more intimate setting—a private dining room overlooking an inner courtyard garden.
"Lady Latia will join you momentarily," he said, bowing again before retreating.
Dante raised an eyebrow at the empty room. No servants hovered nearby. No chaperones lurked in corners. Just a table set for two, candles already lit, wine breathing in a crystal decanter.
Interesting choice, Latia.
The food was already prepared, arranged on silver serving dishes along a sideboard. The scent of roasted meats and exotic spices filled the air. He wandered to the window, looking out at the courtyard below. Mathematical patterns had been woven into the garden design—geometric flower beds and precisely angled pathways forming what he recognized as magical formulas.
Of course. Even her garden is a calculation.
"It's a transmutation array," a voice said from behind him.
He turned to find Latia Astaroth standing in the doorway. She wore a midnight blue gown that hugged her figure before flowing to the floor, the fabric shimmering subtly with embedded magic. Her blonde hair had been styled elegantly, the distinctive blue tips cascading over one shoulder. Those almond-shaped eyes—shifting between emerald and turquoise even as he watched—regarded him with analytical precision.
"Designed to convert ambient magical energy into sustainable growth patterns for the rare specimens," she continued, gliding into the room. "My own creation."
He smiled, offering a bow that was just formal enough to be respectful without seeming stiff. "Impressive. Most devils would settle for hiring more gardeners."
"Most devils lack imagination." She returned his smile, revealing perfect teeth. "Thank you for coming, Young Lord Valac."
"Dante, please." He moved to pull out her chair. "Unless you prefer formality."
"Dante it is." She accepted the gesture, settling gracefully into her seat. "And you may call me Latia."
He took his place across from her, noting how the candles caught the gold threads woven into her dress.
"I see you dismissed your servants," he observed, reaching for the wine decanter. "As did I."
"I find conversation flows more freely without an audience." She held out her glass. "Don't you agree?"
He poured the deep red liquid, a vintage he recognized from his father's collection. Expensive taste. "Absolutely. Though I'm surprised your family allowed such... informality."
"My cousin is attending a political function. The household staff has been instructed not to disturb us." Her eyes met his over the rim of her glass. "I value privacy."
"A rare commodity in our world." He raised his glass in a toast. "To privacy, then."
"And honesty," she added pointedly.
They drank. The wine was excellent—rich and complex, with notes of dark fruit and something earthier beneath.
"Shall we?" He gestured to the food.
They served themselves, the initial conversation revolving around safe topics—recent events in devil society, mutual acquaintances, harmless gossip about noble houses. Throughout, Dante maintained the charming persona he'd cultivated—attentive, occasionally flirtatious, but never crossing into impropriety.
"I must say," Latia remarked after finishing her first course, "you're not quite what I expected."
He leaned back, swirling his wine. "And what did you expect?"
"Based on your reputation?" She dabbed her lips with a napkin. "Someone more... overtly rebellious. Less attentive to social graces."
"Disappointed?"
"Intrigued." She tilted her head, those kaleidoscopic eyes studying him. "There's a disconnect between what people say about you and what I observe."
He grinned. "Maybe I'm on my best behavior for you."
"Or maybe you cultivate that reputation deliberately." She leaned forward slightly. "The question is why."
Clever girl.
"The same reason you maintain your persona, I imagine." He met her gaze directly. "It's useful."
Something shifted in her expression—a flash of surprise quickly masked by practiced poise. She hadn't expected such direct acknowledgment of their mutual performances.
"How observant," she murmured.
"The blue tips in your hair," he said, changing tactics. "They're not just decorative, are they?"
She reached up, touching the colored strands absently. "No. They respond to magical energy when I'm working with complex formulas. A side effect of an experiment gone... not quite as planned."
"Yet you keep them."
"They're useful indicators. And..." A genuine smile touched her lips. "I like them. They're distinctly mine."
He nodded, understanding completely. In a world where bloodlines and family names defined everything, small personal choices became declarations of individuality.
"Your father's grudge against Sirzechs Lucifer," she said, abruptly shifting topics. "Do you share it?"
He laughed. "Direct, aren't you?"
"I prefer efficiency in conversation."
"Fair enough." He refilled their glasses. "No, I don't share it. My father's grudges are his own. I prefer to create fresh enemies rather than inherit old ones."
"Like the Sitri clan?" Her voice remained casual, but her eyes sharpened.
Ah. So we're getting to it.