Chapter 26 Behind Closed Doors
The moment I cross the threshold, I understand just how carefully Dante curates the world around him.
From the outside, the building is unremarkable stone darkened by age, narrow windows set high enough to discourage curiosity, a roofline that blends seamlessly with the surrounding town. It is the kind of place you pass without remembering. The kind of place meant to be overlooked.
Inside, it is something else entirely.
Warmth greets me first not just from firelight, but from design.
The stone floors are polished smooth, reflecting the soft glow of sconces set at measured intervals along the walls.
Thick rugs soften each step, their patterns intricate but muted, chosen for function as much as beauty.
Tapestries hang between shelves and doorways, not overly ornate, but unmistakably valuable woven scenes of battles, maps, symbols I do not recognize but feel instinctively are old, older than my kingdom's recorded history.
It feels less like a house and more like a private stronghold.
A place built to endure.
Dante closes the door behind us with a quiet finality and crosses the room to a thick rope hanging near the hearth. He wraps his hand around it and gives a firm pull.
Somewhere above us, a bell rings once.
The sound has barely faded when a side door opens and a knight steps inside. His armor is dark, worn at the edges not ceremonial, not polished for display. This is armor that has seen use. Blood. Dirt. Long days and longer nights.
He drops to one knee immediately.
"Yes, Your Highness," the man says, head bowed.
Dante does not soften his voice.
"Dismiss everyone," he orders. "No guards inside. Post them outside only. I want privacy."
The knight does not hesitate.
"Of course."
He rises and leaves, already calling orders down the hall.
What follows feels almost surreal.
From adjoining corridors and hidden stairwells, people begin to emerge men and women carrying swords at their hips, servants wiping flour from their hands, gardeners still dusted with soil and leaves.
They speak quietly among themselves, laughter low and familiar, the sound of people who are not afraid in the presence of power.
As they pass Dante, each one pauses.
Each one bows.
Some deeply. Some briefly. Some with the ease of habit rather than obligation.
One woman stops completely.
She is older, hair threaded with silver, eyes sharp and assessing. She looks at me once quick, curious then turns her attention to Dante.
"I left food in your study," she says matter-of-factly. "And wine. For you and your guest."
Dante smiles.
Not the sharp, dangerous curve I've seen in public.
This one is brief. Genuine.
"Thank you, Margaret."
She waves him off with a flick of her wrist, already moving away. "Try not to scare her off."
I blink, caught off guard.
Moments later, the knight returns, bowing again. "All clear, Your Highness."
"Thank you," Dante replies.
The door closes behind the knight, and suddenly the house is quiet.
Not empty.
Contained.
Dante turns to me. "Follow me."
We ascend the stairs, the sound of our footsteps muffled by thick runners laid carefully over stone. The air grows warmer as we climb, carrying the faint scent of leather, parchment, and wine. He stops at a door near the end of the hall and pushes it open.
The room beyond steals my breath.
Books.
Hundreds of them.
Shelves line every wall from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with volumes of varying age and language.
Some spines are cracked and worn, others pristine.
Maps are pinned between shelves, marked with careful notes in ink borders, routes, places of interest. A large table dominates the center of the room, already set with food: fresh bread still warm, roasted meat sliced and arranged neatly, fruit glistening with honey, cheese cut with precision.
Two goblets rest beside a bottle of deep red wine.
The room feels lived in.
Thoughtful.
This is not a place meant to impress.
It is a place meant to think.
Dante moves around the table and pulls out a chair for me. The gesture is deliberate, unhurried, as if time bends to his will here.
I sit.
He takes the opposite chair, resting his forearms on the table. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are sharp, intent watching me the way a predator watches.
"Well," he says at last, voice low and even, "what is it we need to talk about?"
The fire crackles softly.
The food steams gently.
And for the first time since I decided to seek him out, I am acutely aware of one undeniable truth:
There is no audience here.
No guards.
No council.
No masks.
Only two rulers sitting across from one another
And a conversation that will change everything.
"I need a treaty," I say.
Dante pauses not in shock, not in alarm. Just a slight stillness, like a predator deciding whether something is worth its attention. Then he reaches for the bread as though I've asked him to comment on the weather.
"A treaty?" he repeats mildly. "That hardly warrants secrecy. Rulers sign treaties between breakfast and supper." He tears the bread cleanly, crumbs falling onto the table. "I didn't need to drag you out of your own palace and into the woods for that."
He pours himself wine. Then, without asking, he fills my goblet too.
"I don't need a treaty people can overhear," I say. "I need your support for something that cannot be spoken of until it's finished."
That earns me his attention.
Not fully but enough.
He lifts his glass, watching the wine swirl, eyes flicking up to mine from beneath his lashes. "Oh?" His mouth curves. "Now you're being interesting."
He takes a slow sip.
"Let me guess," he says. "Land? Gold? Trade routes? I'm very generous with loans. Ruinous interest, but generous."
"I don't need your money."
He hums thoughtfully. "That narrows things considerably."
My fingers tighten beneath the table. "I need your army."
This time, he smiles.
It's not warm. It's not cruel.
It's amused the smile of a man who knows exactly how dangerous the thing being asked is and enjoys watching someone step closer to the edge.
"My army," he repeats. "You're ambitious."
He leans back in his chair, resting one arm lazily across the backrest, eyes never leaving mine.
"You should know," he continues calmly, "my soldiers do not march cheaply. They don't bleed for promises or honor. They bleed for certainty."
He tilts his head. "And your kingdom cannot afford that certainty."
I don't look away.
"Unless," he adds, tapping a finger against his goblet, "you have something worth more than gold."
His gaze drifts
"Which," he finishes lightly, "I highly doubt."
I inhale.
"I'm offering you an heir."
For a heartbeat, he just stares at me.
Then Dante laughs.
Not softly. Not politely.
He laughs like I've told the best joke he's heard in years.
"An heir?" he repeats incredulously. "What—have you decided i should adopt?"
He waves a hand dismissively. "I don't need a borrowed bloodline. I'd rather my kingdom burn than hand it to some other man's child."
"I'm not asking you to adopt," I say, voice steady despite the heat crawling up my spine.
He squints slightly. "Then explain yourself."
"I'm offering a marriage treaty."
That's when he really loses it.
Dante throws his head back and laughs harder genuine, startled laughter that echoes off the stone walls.
"Well," he says, breathless, "you wouldn't be the first ruler desperate enough to try that."
He shakes his head, still amused. "My council has stopped taking marriage proposals seriously. They've become a running joke."
He lifts his goblet again, smirk firmly in place.
"So," he says, eyes glittering, "which poor woman are you sacrificing to me this time?"
He pauses deliberately.
"If she's attractive enough, I might even consider it."
Then, with a wicked grin
"And for the love of all that's holy, don't say your sister. That would be the worst offer I've ever received."
I meet his gaze.
"I'm offering myself."
The goblet slips.
Wine sprays across the table as Dante chokes violently, coughing, sputtering, nearly falling out of his chair as he slams the cup down and grips the edge of the table.
He stares at me, eyes wide, breath uneven.
"You—" cough "—what?"