Chapter 40- Mercy
The hall smells like iron and old incense.
It always does when judgment is about to be passed.
Isla kneels at the foot of the throne, chains biting into her wrists, her head bowed so low her hair hides her face. The sound of the links shifting follows every shallow breath she takes soft, pathetic, final. She does not look at me. She does not look at anyone.
Across the chamber, the nobles have divided themselves without being told. They always do. Bodies drift to the side that best reflects their conscience or their fear. Today, those lines are especially sharp.
A noblewoman steps forward.
She is older. Sharp-eyed. One of the thinkers. The sort who believes words can still bend steel.
"Your Majesty," she begins, voice steady, rehearsed, "the matter before us is not whether Princess Isla committed a crime."
A murmur ripples through the hall.
She lifts her chin. "The matter is whether justice must always mean death."
Zion doesn't move, but I feel his attention sharpen beside me like a drawn blade.
The noblewoman continues. "The law is clear—yes. Attempted regicide carries a single sentence. But the law was written for enemies of the crown. For traitors who act with clarity and intent."
She gestures gently toward Isla, as though presenting a wounded animal.
"This," she says softly, "is a broken girl. A young princess raised in the shadow of greatness she could never reach. Fear drove her hand, not malice. Madness, not treason."
Across the room, someone scoffs.
Another noble steps forward, this one stiff-backed and furious. "Madness does not excuse murder. She put a blade in the Queen's side. If the wound had been an inches higher, we would be mourning instead of debating philosophy."
A murmur of agreement follows.
"She must die," the noble continues. "The law demands it. And if the law bends for blood, it ceases to be law at all."
Zion finally speaks.
His voice is calm. Controlled. Far more dangerous than shouting.
"The law also demands loyalty," he says. "And my sister showed none. She plotted. She waited. She struck from behind."
He steps forward, eyes never leaving Isla. "If she lives, every ambitious fool in this room will learn the wrong lesson that blood ties buy forgiveness."
Isla flinches.
Dante sits in his chair like a bored god.
He cannot be bothered with the argument.
A platter of fruit rests beside him colors too vivid to be natural. He picks one up, turns it in his fingers, examines the skin with mild suspicion.
"What is this?" he asks no one in particular.
A servant startles. "That is a sun-pear, Your Majesty."
Dante bites into it. Chews once. Frowns.
"Why does it taste like regret?" he mutters, setting it aside. He reaches for another, smaller and spiked. "And this one?"
"That is a fire fig."
He raises an eyebrow. "Why would anyone eat something called that?"
The hall is silent.
The noblewoman pauses mid-sentence, lips pressed tight, waiting for him to stop.
He doesn't.
He tastes the fig. Nods once. "This one at least understands its purpose."
He glances up at the arguing nobles as though noticing them for the first time. "Ohh I'm sorry were you still talking? Please don't mind me continue "
A ripple of unease passes through the chamber.
The noblewoman stiffens but presses on. "Your Majesty, with respect this court must consider mercy. Insanity lessens culpability. Execution is irreversible."
Dante sighs.
He sets the fruit down, wipes his fingers on a cloth, and leans back in his chair. His expression is not angry.
It is tired.
"I find it fascinating," he says mildly, "that you are all so invested in her reasons."
He gestures lazily toward Isla with two fingers. "She tried to kill my queen."
The room goes cold.
"I do not care if she was afraid. I do not care if she was jealous. I do not care if she was loved poorly or raised worse."
He stands.
The scrape of his chair against stone echoes like thunder.
"In my lands," he continues, voice even, deadly calm, "intent matters less than outcome. And the outcome here is simple."
He walks forward, boots striking stone in slow, deliberate steps, stopping just short of Isla.
She finally looks up.
Her face is wrecked with tears and terror. Blood crusts at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes search the room desperately Zion, the nobles, the guards
They pass over me.
They land on Dante.
He looks down at her without hatred.
Without pity.
"Whether this court agrees or not," he says, turning back to the room, "Isla dies today."
The silence is absolute.
"You may continue arguing," he adds, almost kindly. "But you should focus on the only decision that still belongs to you."
"Will it be my blade," he asks, "or the executioner's axe?"
The question does not echo.
It settles.
Like ash after a fire silent, suffocating, impossible to brush away.
I feel it in my chest first, the way the air tightens, the way every sound in the hall dies as if the world itself is holding its breath. Even the banners seem to still. Even the torches stop crackling.
Isla kneels at the foot of the throne, chains digging into her wrists, her head bowed so low it is almost touching stone. Her shoulders shake. The sound she makes is barely human now thin, broken, small.
Dante stands at the center of it all, sword loose in his hand, posture relaxed in a way that would terrify any man who understands violence.
"In the West," he says, voice calm, measured, almost thoughtful, "the law is not a performance."
He begins to pace slowly, boots striking stone with deliberate rhythm. Each step feels like a countdown.
"It is not a thing we argue into obedience. It is not softened by tears, nor bent by titles. The law is not mercy pretending to be justice."
He turns, eyes sweeping the court nobles, guards, clergy, all of them suddenly very aware of how small they are.
"It is structure," Dante continues. "It is the spine of empire. Break it, and the body collapses."
No one interrupts him.
No one dares.
"You will learn this," he says evenly, "because in three weeks, you will live under it."
A ripple moves through the room fear disguised as reverence. Understanding dawning too late.
"In my empire," Dante says, stopping beside Isla, "blood does not buy forgiveness."
He looks down at her.
"Nor does madness erase consequence."
Isla lets out a strangled sob.
"We do not excuse crime because the criminal is young," he goes on. "Or frightened. Or broken by their own envy."
He straightens and turns back to the hall.
"My brother and sisters," he says, voice shifting slightly not softer, but sharper with memory, "would never fall so low."
I feel the weight of that sentence more than any threat.
"I raised them," Dante continues. "Not as ornaments. Not as indulgences of bloodline. I gave them responsibility before I gave them power."
He gestures with the tip of his sword not threatening, simply indicating.
"They hold land larger than this kingdom. Armies that could erase your borders before dawn. They answer to no one but me."
A pause.
"They sit in my court because they earned it."
Another pause.
"They live because they remain loyal."
The silence grows heavy.
"They are kings and queens in everything but title," Dante says. "And they remember that their blood does not protect them from my blade."
My fingers curl against the arm of the throne.
He looks back down at Isla.
"If you had stayed lawful," he tells her, voice flat, almost bored, "you would have stood beside them."
Her head jerks up.
"A princess of the West," he continues. "Power beyond imagination. Protection beyond question."
Her breath stutters.
"Your children would have commanded armies. Your name would have carried weight across seven regions."
Then cold as steel
"But you chose treachery."
The word cracks like bone.
Dante turns back to the court.
"This," he says, "is what fairness looks like."
"Opportunity offered," he says. "Loyalty rewarded."
A step forward.
"Betrayal answered."
He crouches then, lowering himself just enough to meet Isla's eye level. Not to comfort. To ensure she understands.
"There are two deaths," Dante says quietly.
His voice does not rise. It does not tremble.
"My blade is swift," he explains. "Personal. It ends you before your fear fully forms."
A breath.
"The executioner's axe is slower. Public. It teaches."
He tilts his head, studying her like a problem already solved.
"Choose."
Isla's shoulders tremble violently, breath hitching in wet, uneven pulls. Her chains rattle with every movement, iron biting into skin already raw. She looks small there kneeling, shaking, cornered by a fate she can no longer charm her way out of.
Then she lifts her head.
Her eyes find Dante's.
And she spits.
The blood leaves her mouth in a thin, red arc and strikes his cheek.
The sound it makes is almost nothing barely more than a soft pat against skin.
The gasp that follows is total.
The court freezes as if the world itself has been paused mid-breath. I hear no footsteps, no whispers. Every noble, every guard, every servant stands locked in place, eyes wide, hearts pounding in shared disbelief.
Isla laughs through tears.
"Go to hell," she spits again, blood streaking her lips, voice hoarse and breaking even as she forces the words out. "Burn in hell."
For a heartbeat, nothing happens.
Dante closes his eyes.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
He draws a breath so measured it feels intentional like a man steadying himself before correcting a minor inconvenience. When he opens his eyes again, there is no anger there.
Only decision.
He lifts a hand and wipes the blood from his cheek with the back of his knuckles, examining the smear as if mildly curious. His fingers come away stained red. He glances at them, then flicks his hand aside.
The sound of his hand striking her face is sharp and unmistakable.
Isla's head snaps to the side. Her body collapses against the stone with a dull thud, breath torn from her lungs in a choked gasp.
Dante straightens, rolling his shoulder once, casually, as if loosening a stiff joint.
A smile curves his mouth.
"Oh," he says pleasantly, almost amused, "I do love it when people choose option three."
A horrified murmur ripples through the court.
"What—what is option three?" someone whispers.
Dante does not bother answering.
He turns slightly and lifts two fingers.
"Take her."
The soldiers move instantly.
They haul Isla to her feet, ignoring her weak protests, her legs barely supporting her weight. She stumbles as they drag her from the hall, chains clinking, sobs breaking free now—no defiance left, only fear.
The great doors swing open.
Cold daylight pours in.
I rise from the throne.
Not to stop it.
To follow.
Zion moves beside me without a word. The nobles hesitate only for a heartbeat before fear and morbid curiosity drive them forward. No one dares refuse. No one speaks.
We pass beyond stone walls and watchtowers until the palace disappears behind us, replaced by towering trees and dense undergrowth. The forest waits ancient, tangled, indifferent.
Isla is thrown to the ground.
She scrambles weakly, palms slipping in damp earth. Her breath comes in ragged sobs now, panic overtaking pride.
Dante steps forward.
"Remove the chains," he says calmly.
A guard hesitates
Isla looks up, confusion warping into terror as realization dawns. Her body shakes uncontrollably. She tries to crawl backward, heels digging into the soil.
Dante smiles.
"I suggest you run," he says lightly.
A sound erupts behind us deep, eager, alive.
I turn.
The dogs are massive.
Thick-furred, eyes bright with anticipation. Their bodies vibrate with barely restrained energy as they leap toward Dante, paws slamming against his armor. He laughs dropping to one knee to catch their faces, letting them lick his hands as he scratches behind their ears.
"Easy," he murmurs affectionately. "Easy."
The contrast is nauseating.
Isla stares at them, understanding crashing into her all at once.
She pushes herself upright.
Tries to run.
It is not graceful.
She stumbles over roots, nearly falls, screams as she scrambles forward again. Branches tear at her clothes. Her sobs echo through the trees as she disappears into the undergrowth.
Dante rises slowly.
He watches her go with the calm focus of a hunter observing inevitable prey.
Then he looks down at the dogs, hands resting on their massive heads.
"Do me a favor," he says softly.
The dogs tense instantly muscles coiling, eyes locked on the path Isla took.
"Get her."
They explode forward in a blur of fur and power, tearing through the forest with thunderous speed. Branches snap. Leaves scatter. The woods swallow them whole.