Chapter 62 - I will not let go.
Alexander runs.
Not with strategy.
Not with dignity.
Not with the arrogance he once wore like a crown.
He runs like a man who finally understands that the game is over.
His boots scrape against marble slick with blood and shattered glass.
His breath comes in panicked, ugly gasps, each one louder than the last as he barrels toward the far archway of the throne room.
He doesn't look back. He doesn't dare. Fear has finally stripped him down to what he is small, desperate, and terribly human.
Behind him, the room still hums with the aftermath of violence. The air smells wrong metallic and sharp, tinged with burnt magic and sweat. Torches gutter against the walls, their flames trembling as if even fire is afraid to stay steady.
Dante does not shout.
He does not threaten.
He simply moves.
One moment Alexander is running.
The next, Dante is there.
A hand like iron clamps onto the back of Alexander's collar and yanks him backward so violently his feet leave the ground. The impact when Dante slams him down is brutal enough to crack stone. Marble spiderwebs beneath Alexander's skull.
Alexander screams.
It's high-pitched. Broken. Not the sound of a king just a man.
The first punch lands squarely in his ribs. There is a sickening crunch, the sound of something inside giving way. Alexander's body folds in on itself, air exploding from his lungs in a wet wheeze.
The second punch hits his jaw.
His head snaps sideways. Blood sprays across the floor in a dark arc.
The third punch is slower.
More deliberate.
Dante's knuckles connect with Alexander's face, and something breaks bone, teeth, maybe both. Alexander sobs, choking, hands scrambling uselessly against Dante's arms as if he can push him away.
He can't.
Dante mounts him fully now, knees pinning Alexander's legs, one hand fisted in his robes to keep him still. His other hand rises and falls in a merciless rhythm.
Each blow lands with devastating precision. There is no wild flailing, no loss of control in the strikes themselves only in the reason behind them. Dante's breathing is harsh, dragged from deep in his chest, like every hit costs him something and he's willing to pay it anyway.
Alexander tries to speak.
It comes out wrong.
"M—please—" he gurgles, blood bubbling at his lips.
Dante hits him again.
Alexander's hands finally come up, weak and shaking, shielding his face. Dante knocks them aside like they're nothing.
Another punch.
Another.
Another.
At some point, Alexander stops screaming.
At some point, his body stops reacting.
His eyes roll back. His muscles go slack. His head lolls to the side, mouth hanging open, breath shallow and uneven.
He's unconscious.
Dante keeps going.
Blood slicks Dante's hands, coats his forearms, splashes across his chest. His knuckles split open, skin tearing, but he doesn't flinch. He doesn't slow. Each strike lands with a dull, meaty sound that echoes through the throne room like a drumbeat of grief.
The soldiers arrive then boots pounding, armor clashing as they rush in through the shattered doors.
And stop.
All of them.
They freeze in a staggered line, weapons half-raised, eyes wide as they take in the scene before them.
Their king kneeling in blood.
A man broken beneath him.
The throne room reduced to carnage.
No one dares intervene.
No one dares speak.
They watch in horrified silence as Dante beats a body that can no longer feel pain.
I cross the room, my heart hammering so hard it hurts. I reach him, grabbing his arm just as his fist rises again.
"Dante!" I cry, my voice cracking. "Stop—please!"
He doesn't hear me.
His arm is rigid beneath my hands, muscles locked like stone. His eyes are unfocused, staring through Alexander instead of at him.
I wrap both arms around him, pressing myself against his back, my cheek against his shoulder.
"Dante," I whisper now, softer, desperate.
For a terrifying heartbeat, he doesn't respond.
Then his body trembles.
Not violently.
Not dramatically.
Just a small, broken shudder that ripples through him like a fault line giving way.
His raised fist lowers slowly, as if gravity has finally remembered him. His shoulders sag. His breathing stutters.
He leans back, sliding off Alexander's body, sitting on his heels in the blood-soaked marble.
His hands hang uselessly at his sides.
Blood drips from his knuckles, falling in steady drops that echo too loudly in the silence.
I move in front of him, crouching, cupping his face gently despite the blood. His skin is cold. Too cold.
His eyes meet mine.
They are wrecked.
Red-rimmed. Hollow. Bright with tears he refuses to let fall. There is no fury left in them only devastation, raw and unguarded.
He doesn't say my name.
He doesn't say anything at all.
Slowly, he pushes himself to his feet. The movement is stiff, painful, like his body is finally registering the damage it's taken. He steps away from Alexander without looking down at him.
"Move," he says.
It's quiet.
Deadly.
They scramble out of his path, lowering their heads, some flinching as he passes. No one meets his eyes.
Dante walks past them, shoulders squared, spine rigid, every step heavy with something unspoken. His hands are still dripping blood. He doesn't bother wiping them.
He doesn't look back.
He disappears down the corridor, his footsteps echoing until even the echoes die.
Silence floods the room.
I turn back to Alexander.
He lies twisted on the floor, barely breathing, chest rising in shallow, uneven motions. His face is ruined. Swollen. Unrecognizable.
Alive.
For now.
The soldiers move when I speak.
Alexander is lifted dragged, really his body limp, head lolling forward, blood streaking down his temple and into the grooves of the marble floor.
Chains clink as they fasten them around his wrists and ankles.
One of the guards hesitates when Alexander groans, as if unsure whether the man is still alive.
"He's breathing," I say flatly. "That's enough."
They haul him away.
I watch until the doors close behind them.
Only then do I turn back to the throne room.
It looks wrong without Dante.
The room is vast, echoing, stripped of warmth.
Blood stains the stone despite the servants already kneeling with cloths and buckets.
Broken spears lie abandoned. A shattered goblet glints near the base of the throne.
The banners symbols of power, loyalty, legacy hang torn and crooked, as if even the walls are ashamed.
"Arrest anyone who sided with him," I say.
The words cut through the room like a blade.
Guards surge forward.
The nobles react exactly as cowards always do.
One woman collapses to her knees, sobbing, clutching at the hem of a guard's cloak. Another shouts that she was forced, that she only followed orders. A man laughs nervously and insists this is all a misunderstanding that Alexander promised them protection.
Promises mean nothing now.
I stand there, unmoving, as they are pulled away one by one. Their silk sleeves drag through blood. Their jeweled rings scrape against stone as they reach for mercy that does not exist anymore.
By the time the last of them is taken, the room is quiet.
Too quiet.
Night falls slowly, bleeding through the tall windows until the marble gleams silver under moonlight. Servants scrub. Guards stand watch. Order is restored piece by piece.
But Dante does not return.
That's when the unease begins to crawl under my skin.
I search the palace.
chambers empty.
The armory cold, silent.
The council halls dark and abandoned.
Each place feels hollow without him.
Panic threatens to rise, sharp and sudden, but I force it down. I know him. I know where grief drives him when it finally breaks through his armor.
The river.
It lies just beyond the palace grounds, fed by mountain springs clear, fast, relentless. I follow the sound before I see it, the steady rush of water cutting through the quiet night.
And there he is.
Dante sits on the stone bank, his back to me, shoulders slumped in a way I have seen only once before.
His shirt is gone, discarded somewhere nearby.
His hair hangs loose, dark and heavy down his back, catching faint moonlight.
Blood has dried along his ribs and arms, streaking his skin like war paint he forgot to wash away.
He looks... smaller somehow.
Not weaker.
Just human.
He doesn't turn when I approach.
He doesn't need to.
I kneel beside him and open the medical bag. The soft click of the clasps is the only sound that breaks the rhythm of the river. That's when he finally looks at me, eyes lifting slowly, meeting mine without surprise.
There's no fire in them now.
Just exhaustion. And something raw beneath it.
I dip a cloth into the water and wring it out, then take his hand gently. The skin is rough, scarred, familiar. As I wipe away the blood, it runs pink into the river and disappears almost instantly, carried away like it never existed.
He flinches when I clean a split knuckle.
I pause. "Sorry."
"It's fine," he murmurs, though his jaw tightens.
I clean every wound carefully, methodically like it's something I can control when everything else has fallen apart. The shallow cut near his shoulder. The bruising blooming dark along his ribs. The angry scrape across his forearm where a blade kissed bone.
He says nothing.
Just watches me.
The moon reflects in the water, rippling light across his skin. The air smells like stone and cold water and iron. Somewhere in the distance, an owl calls. The world keeps moving, indifferent to what it has taken from us.
When I finally finish, I reach for the bandages, securing them with practiced hands.
After a long silence, he speaks.
"Thank you."
The words sound like they cost him something.
I shake my head gently, tying the final knot. "You don't have to thank me."
He exhales a long, shaky breath and something in him seems to give way.
I sit beside him then, close enough that our shoulders nearly touch. The river rushes on, loud in the quiet between us. For a few heartbeats, we just sit there, staring at the water, neither of us speak.
Then he shifts.
Slowly, like he's afraid I might disappear if he moves too quickly, Dante leans sideways until his head rests in my lap.
He's warm. Solid. Real. His hair spills across my thighs, coarse and soft all at once. I hesitate only a moment before my fingers slide into it, threading through dark strands, gentle where the world has been brutal.
His eyes close.
I cradle him instinctively, my hand moving through his hair in slow, steady strokes. His breathing deepens, evening out, the tension bleeding from his body bit by bit.
He is just a man who broke himself trying to protect what he cares for.
And here, by the river, under a sky that asks nothing of us
I hold him.
I let him rest.
And for as long as he needs
I will not let go.