Chapter 40 Dante
Pindus Mountains, Greece
Six months later
The trail tightens long before I’m ready for it.
One moment it’s a gravel road carving along the ridge, the next it collapses into a goat track that crawls into the spine of the Pindus Mountains.
Every few steps, the wind snatches the distant clang of sheep bells from a valley far below, only to swallow the sound before I can pin it in place.
The mountains tower around me in vast, shadowed folds, steep and ancient, their jagged rock faces jutting out like the ribs of some long-buried titan.
I’d admire it if I weren’t so fucking exhausted.
My eyebags hang so heavy I can feel their weight pulling at my skin. Sweat slicks down my spine, gathers in beads along my face, reappearing no matter how often I wipe it away. My lips are cracked, split deep enough that dried blood tugs at them every time I try to speak or breathe.
The forest thickens as I climb. Black pines and firs lean inward, their branches weaving together above me until the sunlight fractures into trembling bands that flicker across the ground.
I squint against the glare, the rays stinging my dried-out eyes.
When I rub them, colors burst and dissolve behind my lids—bright, electric splashes that vanish as quickly as they bloom.
A sharp pulse of pain and pleasure threads through the pressure of my fingers, followed by a faint, unsettling crack somewhere deep in my eye.
I’m crumbling like soft stone kicked loose from a cliff—watching my fragments scatter across the ground while I can’t do a fucking thing to stop them.
These six months have been the bleakest stretch of my life.
I can count the hours I actually slept on my fingers.
Food barely goes down; even half a sandwich sends nausea rolling through me.
My body feels like a burden I’m forced to drag with me, a vessel I’m cursed to inhabit until it finally gives up.
But none of that pain comes close to what’s festering inside.
After the three of us eradicated The Order, Estella left.
She’s been drifting across the world since then, never lingering anywhere long enough to leave an imprint.
That freelance job Cane lined up for her is working, and probably would’ve anchored her somewhere if I hadn’t been the reason she keeps running.
But I can’t let her go. Wherever she moves, I follow. Whatever she does, I watch. Not to control—just to know she’s breathing, alive, untouched by the ghosts that haunt me.
The silence she left behind gnaws at me every waking moment. The noise inside my head never lets up.
I hadn’t planned on hunting down the man who killed my parents. I buried his folder in the furthest drawer, shut the thought away like a locked room I refused to enter. And even now, minutes from his doorstep, I feel nothing.
No fire. No rage. Not even anticipation. Only the whisper telling me to turn back.
There’s no urgency in my veins. No meaning in my steps. I’m a hollow man chasing dead memories, clutching at the frayed threads of a life I barely remember wanting.
I have nothing left.
I drag a hand across my beard, feeling the rough bristle under my fingers, and take another step forward. The ground cracks softly beneath my boots, uneven stones shifting with every weighty step. Moss clings to boulders and roots, spreading like faded bruises over the landscape.
The trail switchbacks sharply up the slope, each turn unveiling nothing but more mountain, more shadow.
My legs burn with each step, every inch of elevation pulling against me, and fleeting thoughts of turning back flash through my mind.
But there is nowhere to return to. Barcelona, with its sun and brightness, feels like the life of another man, another version of myself drowned in too much color, too much light.
Here, it’s just the raw spine of the mountain—an ancient, quiet, fragile world.
Eventually, I step into a clearing carved straight into the mountainside. Yellowed grass bends under the restless wind, and a low stone wall snakes along the edges, attempting to hold the earth in place. Perched above it, pressed against the slope as if grown from the rock itself, stands the house.
A single-story stone structure stands with thick walls the color of storm clouds, a weathered wooden door silvered by decades of sun and snow.
No fences, no other buildings, no signs of life save a thin wisp of smoke curling from a slate chimney.
Isolation isn’t accidental here. He chose it—or perhaps he was forged by it, until leaving became unthinkable.
I pause at the bottom of the last rise, staring at the house, trying to feel something, but the wind presses against my back, pushing me forward. My hand brushes the gun tucked into my waistband, and I move, climbing the final stretch.
I step further, my gaze sweeping the perimeter.
A chimney is the only signal of life, yet no movement betrays his presence.
Pressing on, I ascend the short, two-plank wooden stairs.
My fingers hover over the handle, stopping just short as I focus on the tremor running through my hand.
A lump rises in my throat, and I clench my fist, forcing it steady.
Since the collapse between Estella and me, my body has been a strange, fragile thing. My hands tremble constantly, my facial muscles tight and unyielding, as if I’m wearing the mask I once hid behind—but now painfully aware of every fracture and every failure.
Shaking off the shadows of those thoughts, I push the door open. It groans softly, the sound of decades of winter swelling the wood. Warmth washes over me, heavy and inviting, while the air smells of woodsmoke, aged pine, and a faint sweetness of dried herbs hanging from a beam above.
I step inside, the door thudding softly behind me. The house opens into one expansive room, divided into sections, every surface and corner crafted from wood or stone, worn by decades of use. Everything carries the weight of life lived in it.
To my left, a small sitting area stretches out: two mismatched chairs with wool blankets draped over their backs, each patch hand-stitched, imperfect but whole.
Between them, a low table, unevenly carved, holds an oil lantern, a knife, and a book swollen with moisture.
Behind the chairs, a stone fireplace rises, wide enough to step into, its logs burning slow and steady, sending up little sparks that hang briefly in the air before disappearing.
The kitchen occupies the opposite corner, compact enough to cross in two steps. A wooden counter, scarred by knives, stretches across one wall. A tiny metal sink sits beneath a narrow frame that looks only onto the mountainside and sky.
I move toward the kitchen, drawn by a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. Anxiety churns low in my stomach, like a gnawing parasite that refuses to be ignored.
I grab the bottle, find an empty glass, and pour myself a drink. The sound of liquid hitting the glass slices through the quiet, mingling with the soft crackle of the fire.
I lift the glass to my lips and take a long sip, the ember-hot liquid burning its way down my throat. When I open my eyes, a short hallway catches my attention—a passage barely wider than the shelves that line it—leading to a small bedroom tucked at the back.
I finish the rest of the glass and step into the bedroom, scanning every corner. The bed is simple—a wooden frame piled with thick blankets. On the bedside table rests a lantern and a chipped porcelain cup. I pick it up, turning it in my hands, examining the imperfections.
Gradually, the alcohol seeps into my veins, loosening the tension knotted in my chest. A dry chuckle rises, and my eyes widen as a thought claws through the chaos. Before I even process it, I let the cup go. It smashes against the floor, sharp shards scattering like scattered teeth.
Anger blooms inside me—raw and painfully familiar. All I seem capable of is leaving destruction in my wake, tearing through anything delicate, anything that carries a story.
I turn slowly, surveying the room again. Every surface, every corner, every creaking floorboard tells a story not of comfort, but of survival.
He took his time to find this place, to shape it, to make it livable. Cozy, even. A refuge carved out for himself while I was out there shoving memories into the darkest corners of my mind and chasing an illusion I never wanted to chase.
Anger sparks brighter in my chest, a match hitting a trail of gasoline, racing fast before it detonates.
A muscle jumps along my jaw as I yank open the drawers and tear through them.
Then, I climb onto the bed, hands already shaking with fury, and rip the pillows apart.
Dozens of white feathers burst upward in a frantic blizzard, drifting and spinning like snow caught in a storm.
I seize the blanket next, pull the knife from my pocket, and slice through it in one clean, vicious stroke before I drive the blade into the mattress, over and over, until the stuffing bleeds out in soft, ruined clumps.
A white-hot inferno fills every hollow inside me. I’m no longer steering my own body—I’m just watching from somewhere deep under the heat as the windows shatter under my fist, glass skittering across the floor.
I storm back into the kitchen, hands grabbing whatever they land on. Dishes. Metal tins. Bottles of alcohol. Jars of herbs and nuts and dried things he collected, arranged, and curated. I fling them, crush them, smash them, each sound cracking open something raw inside me.
So neatly placed. So fucking tranquil.
I wanted this with Estella. A quiet place far from the world—far from blood, far from noise—somewhere we could build something that lasted.
I never got that.
So why the fuck should anyone else?
I tear clothes from their hangers, slash them into ribbons, break more glass, and ruin anything that my hands can find.