Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Two millennia ago, a war raged between the human world and the other—the Underworld.
A war born from darkness, greed, and the hunger of demons who sought to swallow everything in their path.

But amid the legions of the damned, one warrior woke to justice.
A demon who defied his own kind and stood alone against the tide.
His name… was Sparda.

With a sword in his hand and conviction in his heart, he sealed away the forces of evil and safeguarded the human world.
He ruled silently, protected quietly, and disappeared into history.
Thus he became legend…
The Legendary Dark Knight, Sparda.”

“But his tale was not the only one the Underworld feared.
For after Sparda’s age had passed… another rose up in defiance.”

“Created by the Prince of Darkness himself, and the blessing of the goddess Terra, she was forged as a weapon—born from shadow and flame.
Yet her heart rejected the fate carved for her.
Her hatred for her creator burned hotter than the fire she wielded.
She was the ember that refused to die… the flame that refused to bow.”

“Her name was Cassiel.”

“And she swore that when the day came…
she would not run.
She would not hide.
She would face her creator—her father—
and end the legacy of darkness once and for all.

Chapter Text

The street was dark and quiet, choked in fog. Lightning slashed across the distant clouds—forking upward toward the full moon as if something in the heavens were fighting back.

Then, as if she fell from the moon itself, a woman crashed down onto the cracked asphalt. Long blonde hair whipped in the wind, her black leather pants and corset gleaming as the moonlight highlighted her silhouette. Her sunglasses reflected the red neon glow of a large sign at the end of the street:

DEVIL MAY CRY.

-

A phone began to ring. The ringing continued until a white-gloved hand lifted the receiver.

“Devil May Cry.”Cassiel’s voice was calm, polite, and just a little tired as she shuffled things around on Dante’s desk.

The client on the other end immediately launched into a frantic job request.

Cassiel cut them off gently. “Terribly sorry, we closed at nine.”
She hung up with a sigh.

No password. Again. “At this rate, we’re going to lose the business…” she muttered—though she knew Morrison would never let that happen.

Cassiel returned to straightening the desk, wanting it clean before Dante—

CRASH!

A red motorcycle burst through the front door, skidding across the floor and stopping inches before the desk.
Cassiel stared at the destruction… then at the blonde woman calmly sitting astride the bike.

“Goodness me… what do we have here?” Annoyance flickered across her features. “Terribly sorry, but we’re closed for the night.”

The woman ignored her, stepping off the bike and glancing around the office with faint amusement.

“So… you must be the woman who works with the handyman who’ll take any dirty job. Am I correct?”

Cassiel’s eyes narrowed. Slowly, but cautiously, she drifted toward her rapier hanging on the wall next to the Sword of Sparda.

“You’re half right,” she said coolly. “But we usually only take special jobs—if you know what I mean.”

The woman smirked.

“You’re the homunculus who sealed the Temen-ni-gru nine years ago.
The daughter of Mundus… Ms. Cassiel.”

Cassiel’s grip tightened around her rapier. The atmosphere seemed to crack at that—not with electricity but with fury.

“Well, the way I see it,” Cassiel replied, raising her blade to the woman’s throat, and answering her prior question, “a lot of your kind wanders in. And if I kill each one that does, eventually this world gets one step closer to peace.”

The blonde woman tilted her head.

“In that case… you should be used to this.”

Before Cassiel could react, the woman grabbed the blade—and electricity ripped up through the steel and into Cassiel’s body.

“AGH—!”

Cassiel crashed back into the desk, her rapier torn from her grip.
The woman wielded the weapon effortlessly, lightning crackling between her fingers, then drove the blade straight into Cassiel’s chest.

Cassiel’s scream tore through the office as electricity flooded her veins.

The woman laughed.

“Are you really the daughter of the Prince of Darkness? Didn’t your daddy teach you how to wield a sword?”

The lightning stopped. The woman lifted the motorcycle with both hands. And threw it at Cassiel.

Cassiel’s eyes snapped open.

“A sword?” she echoed, voice low and calm. “I don’t need a sword.”

Her palms flashed—bright orange sigils igniting in midair.
The motorcycle stopped inches from her face, suspended by her power. Firelight danced across her expression as she hurled the bike back.

The blonde woman barely dove out of the way.

Cassiel yanked the blade from her chest and stepped forward, her gem glowing with searing orange flame. “Even as a child, I had power. There’s demonic blood in me…”

The woman stared up at her.
“What strength…”

Cassiel leveled the blade at her throat.

“There’s only one other person who knows about my past, and now that you know. It appears I’m getting closer.”

The silence between them was thick—broken only by the burning wreckage behind the blonde woman.

The woman rose slowly.

“It seems that way. But I’m not your enemy.” She straightened, brushing dust from her corset. “My name is Trish.”

Cassiel didn’t lower the blade.

“I came to seek your help… to put an end to the Underworld.”

Cassiel blinked.

“…What?”

Trish reached for her sunglasses. And as she turned. Cassiel froze.

Her breath hitched. Because staring back at her—lit by the burning motorcycle—is a face she has seen only in one surviving photograph.

A frame now lying shattered on the floor, picture untouched by the chaos:

Eva.
Dante’s mother.

Cassiel’s heart—if a demon like her could truly call it that—gave a single, stunned beat.

Trish…
looked exactly
like the woman Dante loved and lost.

Cassiel’s fingers tightened around her blade—not out of fear, but bracing herself for whatever truth Trish was about to reveal. The firelight flickered across her pale features as the ruined office groaned around them.

After a long moment, Cassiel exhaled slowly and sheathed her rapier with a soft metallic click, letting her guard fall only a fraction.

“Tell me what you know.”

Trish straightened. Shadows carved sharp lines across her face as the flames behind her died down.

“Mundus is attempting to gain control of the human world once again.”

Cassiel’s breath caught.

For the smallest instant—so brief that even a trained demon hunter might miss it—her expression cracked. Her eyes cast downward, haunted by a dread she hadn’t felt since the day she defied her creator… the day she vowed to kill him.

Trish continued, her voice low but urgent:

“He’s been preparing to open the gate on Mallet Island.”

Cassiel lifted her gaze, and that flicker of fear hardened into resolve.

“And you want me to help you stop him.”

Trish nodded slowly. “Will you?”

Cassiel didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drifted to the broken photo lying in the debris—Eva. The memory of Dante’s trembling voice when she saw him at his most vulnerable, as he whispered he didn’t want to lose her too.

She closed her eyes briefly.

Then reopened them, shining with fire.

“Tell me everything.”

-

Hours later, the sky was beginning to pale. The night’s storm had passed, leaving the streets damp and glowing with scattered reflections of light from the streetlamps.

Dante walked along the quiet road with two take-out bags swinging loosely from his hands. He was humming—actually humming—and there was a stupid little grin on his face he would deny to his grave.

A whole day with Cassiel. Just the two of them.
No demons.
No emergencies.

He was giddy, and he didn't do giddy. But As he rounded the corner, he froze.

The smile fell off his face.

The Devil May Cry office door wasn’t open. It was obliterated. Shattered inward. Wood splinters and metal shards littered the pavement.

A cold dread punched Dante straight in the gut.

“Cassiel?”

His voice was already shaking.

He broke into a sprint, dropping the bags without noticing. The food splattered across the sidewalk.

“Cassiel!” he shouted, barreling into the office.

The sight inside twisted something deep in his chest.

Furniture overturned. The desk obliterated. Electric scorch marks digging into the walls. 

“Cassiel!” he yelled again, desperate, panic growing with every second he didn’t hear her voice.

That’s when he spotted it: A neatly placed note atop the splintered remains of his desk.

And beside it—
the broken frame that holds the photo of his mother, carefully set upright among the chaos.

Dante’s heart slammed against his ribs.

He picked up the note with trembling fingers.

Cassiel’s handwriting.

Dante, I’m sorry about the office.
I didn’t have time to fix anything.
This is… a last-minute mission. 
Mundus is preparing to open the gate again, with plans to rule this world once more.
I can’t let that happen.
I’ve received information that he is on Mallet Island. By the time you are reading this, I am probably there.
If I don’t come back—
Know that I am sorry, and that I love you.
—Cassiel

The paper crumpled slightly under Dante’s grip as he clenched his fist.

“Damn it, Cass…”

His eyes burned—not with tears, but with fury. With determination. With the fire of Sparda’s blood.

A crooked, stubborn smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth despite everything.

“Like hell you’re doing this alone.”

He stormed toward the weapon rack. But instead of reaching for Rebellion, Dante paused. Slowly—almost ceremonially—he lifted the sword of Sparda.

He strapped Ebony and Ivory into place, the familiar weight grounding him.

Then he turned toward the shattered doorway, eyes blazing with purpose.

“Mundus wants a reunion?”
Dante cracked his neck.
“Fine. But he’s not taking her from me.”

With one last look at the photo of his mother—placed carefully where Cassiel left it—Dante sprinted into the rising dawn.

Heading straight for Mallet Island.
Straight to Cassiel.
Straight into war.

Chapter Text

The boat’s engine sputtered away into the distance, leaving behind a thick silence broken only by the roar of the ocean. Cassiel stepped onto the rocky shore of Mallet Island, her boots sinking slightly into the wet sand as the wind whipped her hair back.

Waves crashed against the jagged cliffs, exploding into white foam that misted the air like cold breath. Above them, the sky churned with heavy clouds—dark, thick, ominous. Not natural storm clouds, but a spiraling vortex of demonic energy coiling around the island like a hungry serpent.

Cassiel felt the air shift with a familiar, nauseating pressure.

The presence of the Underworld was strong.

Trish stood next to her, arms folded casually as if they were on a morning stroll rather than the threshold of hell.

“Looks like he’s gotten a head start,” Trish muttered.

Cassiel didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on the distant structure that clawed its way above the cliff—an ancient, oppressive castle with twisted towers and blackened spires, illuminated by flickers of chaotic lightning. The castle radiated a presence she knew painfully well.

Her creator’s presence.

Cassiel steadied her breathing. She couldn’t afford fear. Not now.

“Let’s go,” she whispered, voice low.

-

The two women approached a steep stone staircase carved into the cliffside. At the top loomed a heavy wooden gate, weathered by centuries of sea air yet humming faintly with dark magic.

Trish glanced at Cassiel, an amused smirk tugging her lips. “I’m surprised you’re this calm.”

Cassiel didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped forward, drew her rapier, and traced a glowing arc across the gate. The blade sliced cleanly through the seam between the double doors. With a sharp push, both sides creaked open, revealing a narrow path ahead.

They stepped through—

—and the gates slammed shut behind Cassiel with a violent boom, the sound echoing across the cliffs.

Cassiel stopped. Her hand instinctively drifted toward her sword as she glanced back, jaw tightening.

Trish only shrugged.
“The castle is above this cliff. Come on, let’s go.”

Before Cassiel could reply, Trish bent her knees and launched herself upward—propelled like a bolt of lightning. She soared almost a hundred meters into the air, landing effortlessly on the platform above as if gravity itself bowed to her.

Cassiel stared up in stunned silence.

Right. There were… differences between them.

She exhaled, breath trembling slightly as the reality of her situation began to settle like frost beneath her skin. Alone. On Mallet Island. Steps away from facing the devil himself.

She had to conserve her energy if she wanted even a chance against Mundus.

Cassiel set her jaw and continued the climb on foot, each step echoing through the empty cliffside.

-

After minutes of winding stairs, she reached a large stone archway built into the cliff face, an entrance bordered by crumbling walls choked with ancient vines.

Cassiel stepped forward carefully, senses sharpened. The air seeped cold around her—the kind of cold that didn’t come from wind, but something deeper. Something wrong.

Inside the archway was a narrow corridor, lit by torches that somehow burned with no fuel. Their flames flickered in unnatural patterns, dancing in sharp, erratic movements as she passed.

Cassiel stepped through—

—and the moment her boot met the castle’s stone floor, the entrance behind her rumbled.

A thick stone slab shot upward from beneath the ground, slamming into place and sealing the doorway shut with a deafening crash.

Cassiel flinched, turning sharply in time to see the last sliver of outside light vanish behind her.

A hollow silence filled the corridor.

“So it begins…” Cassiel murmured, her words barely more than a breath.

But she didn’t linger.

She pushed forward deeper into the castle, fingers brushing the hilt of her rapier, senses humming with the unmistakable presence of demons lurking just beyond the veiled darkness.

Every step echoed.

Every shadow seemed to move.

Mallet Island had awakened.

And its master was waiting.

-

As Cassiel pushed deeper into the labyrinthine halls of the castle, the air grew heavier—thick with dust, old magic, and the faint metallic tang of demonic residue. The jagged stone corridors twisted and split like veins, each turn lit only by flickering wall sconces or the occasional sliver of the morning sun leaking through cracked windows. She moved with practiced wariness, boots silent against the cold floor, blade drawn just enough to be ready.

One particular hallway ended in a crooked archway leading into what appeared to be a dead-end storage chamber. Broken crates, frayed ropes, and decayed wooden mannequins were strewn about the room like discarded props from a forgotten play. Something about the stillness made her pause.

Her gaze snagged on a puppet-like figure slumped against the far wall, its porcelain mask cracked, its wooden fingers curled rigidly around something. Cassiel approached slowly, every step measured. Kneeling, she pried its stiff fingers open. Flakes of dried paint and splinters fell away to reveal a rusted iron key, cold against her palm.

“So you were guarding something,” she murmured.

It had to be the key to that locked door she’d passed earlier. Cassiel rose, turning toward the exit—

SHING—!

A blade whistled down from above, slicing through the air where her neck had been a split-second earlier. Cassiel pivoted back, blade flashing into her hand as she slid out of the weapon’s path. The puppet that had been lifeless moments ago now hung suspended on invisible strings, its head tilting sharply as its arms jerked with unnatural animation.

“Oh, wonderful,” she muttered dryly.

Another marionette scraped across the stone floor from the shadows to her right, joints clicking. And a third dropped from the ceiling, landing behind her with a hollow thud.

They lunged.

Cassiel surged into motion, the familiar weight of her rapier grounding her. She ducked under the first puppet’s swing and severed its arm cleanly, the limb clattering across the floor. Before the creature could recover, she drove her boot into its torso, sending the wooden body crashing into a wall where it cracked apart.

The second puppet rushed her with a spinning attack. She parried sharply, sparks flying from the impact, and with a twist of her wrist, she redirected its momentum, cleaving it diagonally. The marionette split in two, its pieces falling like discarded lumber.

The third attempted to impale her from behind, but Cassiel felt the shift in the air and sidestepped, grabbing its arm and yanking it forward. With a swift, clean arc, she sheared its head off, the head rolling until it stopped at her boot.

Silence reclaimed the room.

Cassiel exhaled, brushing dust from her shoulder. “Damn things never stay dead the first time.”

Stepping back into the hallway, she retraced her path to the winding staircase. The descent was eerily quiet except for her footsteps echoing off stone. She slid the rusted key into the locked door’s keyhole. With a reluctant groan, the old hinges shifted and the door creaked open.

Inside was a cavernous workshop-like chamber. The centerpiece was impossible to miss—a half-restored vintage airplane, propped by metal supports and draped in tarps. Tools were scattered across nearby tables, and the smell of oil lingered faintly in the air as if the room hadn’t been abandoned quite as long as the rest of the castle.

Cassiel slowly scanned her surroundings. On a towering red door opposite the aircraft, someone had scrawled in bold, jagged script:

“The 17 puppets are my masters. There will be no admission as long as my masters are here.”

She clicked her tongue. “Of course it wouldn’t be that easy.”

Her attention shifted to a circular glowing sigil etched into the wall nearby. The symbol pulsed faintly, dormant but waiting. Cassiel approached, resting her fingers on the hilt of her blade.

“I remember this trick…”

Drawing her weapon, she struck the sigil repeatedly until it flared bright blue. A low hum vibrated beneath her feet—then the ground dropped suddenly. Cassiel tensed but didn’t panic as the platform descended, lowering her into yet another subterranean chamber.

A small arena awaited.

And in it stood seventeen marionettes, already twitching to life as if sensing fresh prey. Their heads snapped toward her in eerie unison, strings vibrating with malignant hunger.

Cassiel huffed, rolling her shoulders back and lifting her blade. “Alright then. Let’s get this over with.”

-
The last marionette fell in splintered pieces at Cassiel’s feet, its porcelain mask shattering with a hollow clack that echoed around the stone arena. Cassiel exhaled slowly through her nose, lowering her rapier as its soft, faintly golden glow dimmed back to its usual muted hue.

She flicked the rapier, clearing puppet dust from the edge, and sheathed it with a crisp metallic snap before stepping back onto the center sigil. A deep rumble rolled through the chamber as the ancient mechanism reactivated, lifting her slowly toward the upper room.

As she ascended, Cassiel tilted her head back, eyes narrowing. Stay focused. Don’t burn out early. Don’t waste energy—not when Mundus is waiting.

The platform stopped. Cassiel stepped off and passed through the once-locked door, her boots echoing across the polished cold floor as she pushed deeper into the castle.

-

A rumble of thunder reverberated throughout the island.

Dante stumbled out of his Devil Trigger in a burst of steaming energy, boots skidding across the rocky cliff as he caught his breath. The wind whipped his coat violently behind him, the familiar red fabric snapping like a battle-torn banner. The scent of sulfur and sea salt hit him simultaneously, heavy and suffocating.

He straightened, running a hand through his white hair as his gaze snapped toward the towering stone gate before him—the same one Cassiel and Trish had passed through hours earlier.

He didn’t know that.

He tightened his grip around the Sword of Sparda, the weight both comforting and heavy with purpose.

The island itself seemed to breathe, pulsing with an evil aura that seeped into Dante’s bones. A chill crawled up his spine.

“…Cass…” he muttered under his breath.

Just saying her name made the dread in his chest coil tighter, like a vice.

Dante stepped forward.

With a grunt and far more force than necessary, he carved through the wooden doors, the Sword of Sparda slicing the gate clean in two. Splinters erupted outward as he kicked the remains aside.

The moment he stepped through, the island reacted.

SLAM!

The gate crashed shut behind him, stone and metal grinding into place with a finality that made Dante pause and glance back.

He scoffed. “Great. Creepy island that traps you inside. Real original.”

His sarcasm couldn’t hide the tension pulling at his features.

Making sure Ebony and Ivory were secured, Dante rolled his shoulders, adjusted the strap of Sparda across his back, and began climbing the long, winding cobblestone staircase that stretched toward the looming silhouette of the castle above.

Each step carried a new surge of worry.

The thought of Cassiel walking into this mess—alone, with some mysterious stranger—made his blood heat. Not out of anger. Out of fear.

“I swear, Cass… you better be okay,” he muttered.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the massive fortress perched high above like a hungry beast waiting to swallow whoever dared approach.

Dante frowned, eyes unreadable.

“Hang tight. I’m coming.”

With that, he jogged up the final curve of the staircase and disappeared into the shadows of Mallet Island’s foreboding castle—unaware just how close he was to Cassiel… and how quickly their paths would converge.

Chapter Text

The hall beyond the door was silent—unnervingly so.

Cassiel stepped inside, her heeled boots tapping faintly against the polished stone floor. The air smelled of dust, old incense, and the faint metallic tang of demonic residue lingering in the cracks of the cathedral walls. The corridor stretched ahead, narrow yet tall, illuminated only by flickering torchlight that cast distorted shadows across the vaulted ceiling.

Several doors lined the hall, ancient wood swollen with age. But Cassiel’s golden eyes—still glowing faintly from her earlier combat—were drawn to the end of the corridor where something shimmered in the darkness.

A statue.

It sat upon a raised platform of cracked marble, half-buried in dust and illuminated by a single streak of sunlight. A woman—angelic or demonic, it was impossible to tell—was sculpted in the middle of an eternal scream, her stone lips parted in anguish. Piercing through her chest was a long, ornate sword, its blade darkened with age, its guard carved with twisting patterns resembling storm clouds.

Cassiel approached slowly.

Her breath softened. The air thickened around her.

Closer now, she could see the inscription etched into the base of the statue. Faded letters carved long before human hands walked this earth:

“I am Alastor. The weak shall give their heart and swear their eternal loyalty to me.”

Cassiel brushed dust away with her gloved fingertips to read it fully. A low hum began to resonate through the hall. The torches flickered violently.

And then—

The statue vanished.

Crumbled into light, dissolving like sand blown by a storm. Only the sword remained, suspended in midair for one suspended breath—

Before it roared to life.

Blue lightning erupted from the blade, violent arcs that tore cracks into the floor and illuminated the whole corridor in brutal flashes.

Cassiel barely had time to inhale.

THRUM—CRACK!

The sword shot forward like a bolt of living thunder.

It plunged into her chest.

Cassiel’s scream choked out halfway, her back slamming against the floor as her body convulsed from the sheer electrical force. The pain was instantaneous—searing beyond fire, beyond heat, beyond her demonic threshold.

The world went white.
Then black.
Then still.

For several moments, she didn’t move.

The torches steadied.
The electricity ceased.
Silence reclaimed the hall.

Blood dripped down the pristine marble, trailing from the blade embedded in her sternum and pooling beneath her. Her hair—normally sleek and curled—fanned around her face in disheveled red and blonde strands as she lay motionless.

Then—

A breath.

Shallow, shuddering, but unmistakably alive.

Cassiel’s fingers twitched.

Her boots scraped against stone as she pushed her feet beneath her, lifting her body upward despite the sword pinning her like a hunted creature. More blood spilled, wetting her gloves, streaking down her dress.

With a low, guttural sound—half growl, half hiss—she grabbed the hilt of the sword.

And pulled.

The blade slid from her body in one violent jerk, blood spraying the cold stone. She staggered forward but didn’t fall. Already, her wound began sealing with faint orange light—her demonic regeneration working overtime.

Her breathing slowed.

Her hands steadied.

The sword hummed in her grasp, lightning crackling under her fingertips like something alive. She could feel it coil around her bones, threading itself into the core of her power.

Alastor. The Thunder Sword.

Cassiel’s lips curved upward in a small, breathless smile.

“…Dante would’ve loved you.”

Her tone was soft—fond. A rare warmth that flickered only when she thought of him.

But the smile withered as quickly as it came. The guilt settled over her like a shadow, heavy and familiar.

She saw the look on his face the night she left—except she never really saw it. She could only imagined it.

Imagined him arriving to find the destroyed office.
Imagined him reading her note.
Imagined the hurt in his eyes because she chose to go alone.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered to the empty hall.

She secured Alastor to her back, the blade’s length and weight aligning perfectly with her movements as if recognizing her as its new wielder. Blue sparks danced once along the edge before fading.

Cassiel wiped the remaining blood from her chin.

Her posture straightened.

Her jaw tightened.

“For now…” she murmured, her voice steadying with resolve, “…I must be strong. For me.”

She placed her hand over her chest where her wound had been.

“And for Dante.”

Cassiel turned on her heel, orange eyes burning with new determination, and walked deeper into the cathedral to unlock the path forward—Alastor humming at her back, the storm now hers to command.

-

Cassiel’s boots squelched faintly as she stepped out of the flooded stone tunnel, her clothes damp from the underwater caverns she’d just navigated. Drops of water slid from her curls, rolling down the ends where fiery blonde met bright, molten red. She exhaled, steadying herself as she entered the cathedral proper.

The vast chamber opened before her like the ribcage of a fallen titan—arched ceilings, cracked stained-glass windows, and the faint glow of sunlight filtering through the fractured dome above. The air smelled faintly of sulfur and old incense.

At the far end of the cathedral, an altar.

And embedded in its stone slab was a lion’s head crest, shimmering faintly with holy power.

Cassiel approached with slow, sure steps. Alastor hummed on her back, the lightning spirit recognizing something ancient. Her own rapier—slender, elegant, glowing softly like heated gold—responded with a faint, melodic resonance.

She placed her hand around the Pride of the Lion and lifted it from the altar.

Instantly—

Both Alastor and her rapier ignited with light.

A surge of energy crackled through her arms, climbing her shoulders like living fire. Her orange-gold eyes widened in alarm, flicking from one glowing blade to the other.

“What—?”

Above her, through the fractured glass dome, something massive and burning with molten fire fell.

The stained glass exploded.

Shards rained down.

And with a thunderous crash that shook the entire cathedral—

Phantom landed.

The monstrous demon towered above her, a hybrid of spider and scorpion, his body made of magma and obsidian stone. Lava pulsed beneath the cracks in his armor like veins filled with molten blood. His many eyes burned like pits of hellfire as he leaned closer, mandibles clacking with predatory amusement.

He inhaled deeply.

And released a guttural, rumbling chuckle.

“Well, well… if it isn’t the traitorous creation of Mundus.”

Cassiel’s grip tightened on her rapier—but she did not back away. Her wet curls shifted around her shoulders as she raised her chin, meeting his gaze with unimpressed calm.

Phantom’s tail twitched behind him, dripping sparks of magma across the shattered floor.

“How unexpectedly…” Phantom lowered his massive body until the heat of him washed over her face, “…delightful.”

Cassiel let out a quiet breath through her nose.

Then smirked.

“Phantom,” she said, her voice smooth as polished steel. “You’ve gotten fat.”

The demon reared back, offended, molten eyes widening.

Cassiel continued, lifting her rapier with deliberate grace.

“I hope for your sake you’ve got something useful under all that bulk. You’re going to need it.”

Her rapier ignited—golden-orange flames spiraling up its slender blade like celestial fire. Her hair responded in kind: the red lengths glowed fiercely, while the blonde tips lit like fire. Her orange-gold eyes burned brighter, her demonic gem and glowing alchemical tattoo pulsing in synchrony with her rising aura.

A wave of heat blasted outward from her, making the torches flicker violently.

Phantom snarled, mandibles scraping together like grinding stone.

“I’ll crush you—”
He raised one burning claw, magma dripping in thick globs to the stone—
“LIKE AN ANT!”

He brought the leg down with devastating force.

Cassiel moved.

Her dragoon-like leap launched her several meters into the air as the claw obliterated the marble beneath her. Shards flew. Smoke billowed. Phantom roared in frustration as Cassiel landed gracefully on a cracked pillar behind him, flames wreathing her silhouette.

Her voice echoed through the cathedral:

“Try it.”

Phantom howled, molten venom dripping from his fangs—

The fight began.

-

After the brutal clash, Phantom let out a final enraged roar and dragged his scorched, cracked form toward the center of the magma pool. The molten vortex swirled around him like a whirlpool of fire before swallowing his hulking body whole. The moment he disappeared, the vortex vanished into the stone below as if it had never existed.

Cassiel stood there breathing heavily, sweat and demon blood dripping down her jawline. Her blazing form dimmed—fiery hair settling back into its usual red with golden tips, her orange-gold eyes losing the intense glow. She lowered her rapier, muttering a curse under her breath.

She hated letting Phantom escape.

But she wasn’t here to chase him—not yet.

With the Pride of the Lion secured in her hand, Cassiel turned and moved deeper into the cathedral. The air felt cooler now that Phantom was gone, yet still echoing with ancient hymns long forgotten. The door at the back creaked open and she followed the hallway back toward the courtyard where she had discovered the statute of the lion.

Once outside, Cassiel approached the enchantment-bound lion statue. The Pride of the Lion pulsed faintly in her grasp, resonating with the magic around it. She placed it into the carved indentation on the statue’s forehead.

For a beat, nothing happened.

Then the statue cracked. And crumbled.

From the rubble rose a creature of shifting darkness—a shadow-lion with glowing red eyes and jagged fangs made of pure malice. It lunged.

Cassiel didn’t bother activating Alastor—her rapier was enough. She spun, slid beneath the beast, and drove her blade upward. The shadow creature dissolved into a burst of dark mist, leaving only a faint shimmer behind as the magic seal on the next door unbound itself with an echoing metallic chime.

Cassiel exhaled sharply and leapt up to the balcony, entering the tower through the now unlocked door.

The spiraling square staircase stretched upward like a spine of ancient stone. Every step echoed. Every landing felt colder than the last. Cassiel felt watched—by memories, by ghosts, by something far older than the demons infesting this place.

At the top of the tower, she emerged into a bedroom.

Despite its age, the room felt frozen in time—a canopy bed with sheer curtains torn at the edges, a dusty writing desk, shelves of untouched books. But everything paled beside the enormous mirror dominating the wall.

Next to it stood a tall marble statue of the head of a woman, her expression carved into eternal sorrow. Cassiel stepped closer, noticing the glint of something in the statue’s mouth.

A mechanism.

Cassiel raised Alastor and slid the blade into the slot beneath the statue’s throat. The entire head shifted, releasing a spherical object onto the floor.

Melancholy’s soul

Cassiel lowered herself to pick it up —and that was when she felt it.

The shift in the air. She snapped her gaze toward the mirror.

Her reflection… moved on its own.

Cassiel’s breath caught. Slowly, impossibly, her mirrored self stepped forward—then passed through the glass like it was water. It stopped just inches in front of her, staring with empty eyes.

And then it changed.

A dark blue aura crackled around it, swallowing her features until they morphed into heavy, sleek armor. A tall demon emerged—a knight clad in the unmistakable style of the Cavaliere Angelo order.

Cassiel stared, heart pounding.
That armor… that aura…

Something about him felt familiar, painfully so.

“You must be one of Angelo’s knights…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The Dark Knight said nothing. He simply stared down at her, tilting his head slightly—almost curious. Almost gentle. Then he took a slow, deliberate step toward her.

Cassiel backed up, drawing Alastor, her orange-gold eyes narrowing. She prepared to defend herself—

—but the knight didn’t reach for a weapon.

Instead, he reached for her, hand extended, movement slow, almost hesitant, as though—

As though he recognized her.

Cassiel’s grip faltered for a moment, thoughts racing. Could he—

THUD-THWANG!

A blade suddenly slammed into the wall between them, breaking the moment. The Dark Knight recoiled, stepping back as the sword vibrated violently from the force of impact.

A familiar, cocky voice echoed through the room:

“This hell hole was the last place I thought I’d find anyone with some guts.”

Cassiel’s eyes widened. She turned toward the doorway, heart leaping before she could stop it.

“Dante?!”

He leaned against the doorframe like he owned the place—red coat, boots dusty, Sparda’s sword still humming from the throw, and that infuriating, comforting grin on his face.

Cassiel felt relief crash into her all at once—warm, overwhelming, and sharp enough to sting.

Dante smirked.

“Miss me, hot stuff?”

Chapter Text

Cassiel barely had time to process Dante’s sudden entrance—the sword still quivering in the wall, Dante smirking like he hadn’t just saved her life—when a sharp metallic sound snapped her attention back toward the Dark Knight.

He had drawn his massive sword. And pointed the blade directly at Dante.

Before either she or Dante could react, the knight lifted his free hand and snapped his fingers. A booming echo cracked through the room as the double doors leading to the balcony swung open violently, slamming against the walls with supernatural force.

“Cassiel!” Dante barked—but it was too late.

The Dark Knight lunged forward, impossibly fast for his size. His gauntleted hand clamped around Cassiel’s wrist, cold and unyielding. Cassiel cried out, twisting against his grip, but the armored giant didn’t falter. With a powerful stride he sprinted straight for the balcony doors, dragging her behind him like she weighed nothing.

“Let me go!” Cassiel shouted, digging her heels into the ground. Her boots scraped against the stone, but she couldn’t slow him.

In one decisive leap, the Dark Knight vaulted over the balcony railing and plunged into the open air.

The doors slammed shut behind them.

“CASS!” Dante’s voice echoed through the room.

Without hesitation, Dante yanked the Sword of Sparda off the wall. The moment his fingers touched the hilt, ancient power rippled through the chamber like a heartbeat. Dante frowned—there was no time for questions.

He charged forward, kicked open the balcony doors, and launched himself over the railing.

He landed in the courtyard below in a crouch, stone cracking under the force. Immediately, his eyes darted across the area—

There.

Cassiel was pushing herself up from the ground, brushing dust from her shoulders. She looked more irritated than injured.

Dante jogged over, concern slipping through his usual swagger.

“You alright?”

Cassiel nodded, flexing her wrist where the Dark Knight had grabbed her.

“I’ve been thrown harder,” she muttered. Her orange-gold eyes narrowed. “He didn’t try to hurt me. Just… moved me.”

Dante frowned at that—but before he could question it, Cassiel’s gaze went upward.

“...Dante.”

Dante followed her line of sight.

Atop one of the towering structures bordering the courtyard stood the Dark Knight. His massive frame was outlined by the sunset, armor gleaming with a sinister blue sheen. His cape snapped in the wind behind him like a shadow given life.

He raised his sword high—its edge glowing with an ominous power.

Then he jumped.

The impact of his landing shook the courtyard. The air trembled.

Cassiel and Dante stepped back, shoulder to shoulder. Dante cracked his neck. “Guess we’ll have to put the reunion on hold,” he said, twirling Sparda with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

Cassiel exhaled slowly, Alastor lighting with electricity in her hand. “Wouldn’t be us if we didn’t earn it first.”

Before them, the Dark Knight straightened to his full, towering height, sword poised, silent and unreadable.

Dante smirked at Cassiel.

The knight took a single step forward—

And the fight began.

-

The clash shook the courtyard.

Nelo Angelo fought like a storm contained in armor, every strike carrying a weight that rattled bone. Even with Dante and Cassiel moving in perfect rhythm—sword and lightning flashing as one—the Dark Knight’s sheer force pressed them backward, step by punishing step.

Dante lunged high while Cassiel slid low, her rapier trailing arcs of crackling fire. Their blades crossed against Nelo Angelo’s in a blinding shower of sparks—but the knight didn’t falter. He forced through their guard with a single heavy swing, sending Cassiel sliding back across the stone.

“Persistent bastard,” Dante hissed, twisting Rebellion up to parry another crushing blow.

Nelo Angelo didn’t respond with words—only a vibrating growl echoing inside his helm. And then—with terrifying speed—he broke Dante’s guard, seized him by the front of his jacket, and leaped.

“Dante!” Cassiel’s voice cracked through the courtyard.

Stone shattered under their landing on an upper walkway balcony. Dante grunted as his back hit the railing, barely stopping himself from falling over.

Cassiel sprinted across the courtyard, boots scattering dust, eyes never leaving them.

On the balcony, Dante gripped the Sword of Sparda tighter and rushed forward in a blur of motion. His strike was precise, aimed directly for the knight’s chest—

A ringing clang.

Nelo Angelo’s blade met it so harshly that the shock ripped Sparda from Dante’s grip, the legendary sword spinning across the floor.

Dante swore under his breath.

They collided bare-handed—steel gauntlet against flesh, each collision sounding like metal on metal. Dante swung with brutal efficiency, his fist striking the knight’s helm hard enough to echo—but the Dark Knight barely staggered.

In an instant, Nelo Angelo retaliated. The armored fist slammed into Dante’s ribs, and the next hit broke his footing entirely.

Dante hit the stone floor hard.

Before he could roll away, the Dark Knight was on him. A massive hand clamped over Dante’s head and the other seized his throat, lifting him and slamming him against the wall like a ragdoll. Stone cracked behind his shoulders.

Dante gritted his teeth, fingers digging into the armored hand around his throat. His boots scraped against the wall as he tried to pry the grip loose. Air choked out of him.

A distorted laugh reverberated through the knight’s helm—a sound with no warmth, only madness.

And then it stopped. The Dark Knight’s head tilted. His grip loosened by inches. Something glinted at Dante’s chest—his amulet, sliding free from beneath his vest.

Nelo Angelo froze.

A harsh, broken growl rumbled from him—confusion, rage, something deeper and more human. With a violent motion he flung Dante aside. Dante hit the ground and darkness swallowed him for a moment.

The knight staggered backward. His hands clawed at his own helm as if something inside was splitting him apart. Blue sparks arced over the armor, racing along glowing, fracturing lines. Flames of azure roared to life around him—demonic energy surging uncontrolled.

Cassiel reached the balcony just as he reeled skyward, propelled by a burst of blue fire.

His scream echoed like steel tearing itself apart—

Then in a flash, he disappeared..

Cassiel stood frozen for a heartbeat.

Then her eyes snapped toward the slumped figure on the stone.

“DANTE!”

She fell to her knees beside him, hands trembling as she cupped his face—thumbs lightly brushing grit from his cheekbones.

“Dante—hey.” Her voice was smaller than she meant it to be. “Dante, look at me.”

A low groan answered her. His eyes opened, pale blue meeting molten orange-gold. Relief washed through her like a tide collapsing.

“There you are,” he muttered, breath shaky. “I’m fine. Mostly.”

Cassiel let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding, shoulders loosening as the tension bled from her body.

He was okay. He was here.

She helped him sit up, one arm around his back. For a moment, she just looked at him. Dirt smeared his cheek, blood at his collar, and still he smirked like they had simply tripped over each other in a bar fight.

“You came all this way,” she whispered, shame creeping in like cold water. “Just to help me.”

Her gaze dropped and her words tumbled out—unsteady, rushed, genuine, and so out of character for her.

“I’m—Dante, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you what I was doing. Where I was going. I just—going after Mundus alone was stupid, and I—”

He blinked, stunned. Whatever anger he might’ve carried didn’t reach his eyes. It wasn’t anger—not really. It was fear. The kind that comes when the person you love disappears into danger without you.

Cassiel kept rambling, voice cracking—Until Dante gently placed both his hands on her cheeks. Her words died in her throat.

He leaned in and kissed her—softly, steadying her breath, grounding her panic. It wasn’t desperate or rushed. Just real. When he pulled back, there was a crooked grin tugging at his mouth.

“Next time you go on a ‘last-minute’ mission,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers, “you tell me. Okay?”

Cassiel stared at him—eyes wide, shimmering with something unspoken—then she nodded, a small, sure smile breaking across her lips.

“Of course.”

And in that moment, amidst shattered stone and fading blue embers, the world felt painfully, beautifully simple.

Just the two of them.

Together.

Cassiel’s smile lingered only a moment before her expression shifted—eyes narrowing with sudden realization. She reached into the inner pocket of her jacket and drew out the glowing orange orb. The pulsing light inside flickered weakly, like a candle fighting the wind.

Melancholy’s Soul.

Its magic was already fading.

“We have to move,” she said, voice tight with urgency. “The orb’s power is waning. We need it to unlock the next door before it’s gone.”

Dante glanced at the sphere, then at her. No questions. No hesitation. Just trust.

Cassiel pushed herself to her feet and extended her hand toward him. Dante smirked faintly and clasped her glove with his own, letting her pull him up.

“Well then,” he said, rolling his shoulders as though shrugging off the pain, “what are we waiting for?”

Cassiel returned the smirk—warm, fierce.

“Let’s go.”

Together, they sprinted across the battered balcony, boots pounding stone still vibrating from their battle. Wind whipped through Cassiel’s hair as they vaulted back through the shattered doorway into the dim bedroom where the mirror still stood—cold, silent, hiding its secrets.

The dying glow of Melancholy’s Soul cast shifting orange light along the walls as they crossed toward the exit.

Behind them, the room fell quiet again—only the distant echo of the Dark Knight’s scream lingering like a ghost in the air.

Cassiel didn’t look back.

With Dante at her side, she rushed into the next challenge of this hellhole island—toward whatever horrors waited, toward Sparda’s legacy, and toward the shadow of the demon king who had forged her.

And she would not run alone.

Chapter Text

Dante and Cassiel had been winding through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle for what felt like hours. The ancient stone walls echoed with distant roars and chittering, as if the fortress itself were breathing—alive with malice.

Their path had taken them through “Evil Waterways,” a flooded passageway carved beneath the castle foundations. Stagnant water rose to Cassiel’s knees in places, murky with centuries of decay, while demonic insects the size of large dogs crawled along the walls and skittered across the surface of the water. Each movement produced ripples of oily blackness. Dante complained only once, halfway through, shaking his leg violently after something with too many legs tried to climb it.

“Remind me to burn this outfit later,” he grumbled.

Cassiel didn’t smile, not outwardly, but the faintest glimmer of amusement flickered in her golden-orange eyes. She raised her rapier, using the gleam of its silver edge and the lingering electricity of Alastor strapped to her back to illuminate their path forward.

They passed chambers they’d fought through before: shattered glass domes, broken sculptures, the long corridor where Cassiel had first found Alastor’s statue and endured its trial. Their journey was circular—like the island itself was guiding them, forcing them to meet the next challenge head-on.

And that challenge came sooner than either expected.

A final winding stairway led them once again to the rooftop—a small, circular arena suspended over the castle’s massive entrance hall. Its floor was made of reinforced glass and steel, stained by the shadows of battles long past. Ragged storm clouds churned above, circling the island like a curse.

Cassiel stepped forward without fear. Dante followed at her shoulder, eyes tracking the structural pillars around them.

Then—
SLAM!

A steel gate crashed down over the exit behind them, sealing them inside the arena. Dust exploded around its impact, and the metal rattled with violent finality.

Dante took a cautious step back, instincts raising his weapon—but then spun around, startled by a sudden avalanche of pebbles from the terrace above.

Stone cracked.
The wall bulged outward.

And with a molten roar, Phantom erupted into view.

The hulking scorpion-spider demon—lava glowing through the cracks in his obsidian carapace—launched himself over the edge and landed in the center of the arena with such force the glass floor moaned beneath him. Flames gathered at the seams of his body, molten veins pulsing with fury.

His voice sounded like volcanic stone grinding together:

“Blargh! Recess time is over, Cassiel!” Phantom roared, tail striking the ground like a falling guillotine. “Here, there’s plenty of room to get real nasty! This time, there’s no holding baaaack!”

Dante blinked and turned slowly to Cassiel, lips quirking upward with mock surprise.

“You know this guy, Cass?” he asked, tone dry as desert sand.

Cassiel let out a sharp breath through her nose, the kind reserved for inconveniences she thought she left behind ages ago.

“Sadly.”

No further words were needed.

Cassiel’s body ignited with demonic resonance—blonde sparks blooming into flame along the ends of her red hair as the sigil gem at her chest began to glow. She drew her rapier in one smooth flourish, the blade singing with heat.

Dante lifted the Sword of Sparda in response, its weight familiar and heavy with legacy.

“Well then,” he grinned, “let’s get to work.”

They moved as one.

The battle was chaos wrapped in precision. Phantom lashed out with his legs, each strike splitting stone and sending shockwaves through the glass beneath them. Cassiel darted in close, weaving between the monster’s limbs with inhuman grace, her rapier leaving trails of fire in the air. Dante met Phantom from the opposite side, each of his strikes ringing with Sparda’s inherited power.

Molten blood splattered. Glass cracked. The sky above roared thunder.

Cassiel’s speed forced Phantom back, while Dante’s power cut deeper than the demon expected.

And then—
Dante found the opening.

He planted his heel, pivoted, and drove the blade of Sparda deep into Phantom’s exposed joint. The spider-demon shrieked—a sound that shook loose the last stability in the glass floor.

The impact sent Phantom hurtling backward. The glass shattered beneath his weight, exploding into glittering shards as the demon plummeted with a molten roar—

—and crashed into the grand foyer below.

Cassiel and Dante rushed to the edge of the hole, shards crackling under their boots. Below, Phantom lay skewered—impaled through the abdomen by the broken lance of a stone knight statue, its blade buried deep in lava-flesh.

Dark magma oozed from the wound. The demon writhed, his limbs twitching with fading rage.

“Ack… Argh…” Phantom gasped, voice trembling with disbelief. “You… you’re not just any ordinary human… What are you?”

His vision blurred. Heat-stained eyes lifted—and through the haze, Dante’s silhouette merged with a much older one: the towering presence of Sparda himself, wreathed in shadow and flame.

“No… The legendary Sparda…!? It can’t be!”

Dante rested the sword over his shoulder, smirking down at his dying foe.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’m his son. Dante.”

He winked.

“Sweet dreams.”

Phantom inhaled one sharp breath—and shattered into burning fragments, drifting away like ash in the wind. Nothing remained but the faint smell of sulfur and the soft glow of fading embers.

Cassiel exhaled slowly, the flames in her hair dying out, embers fading to glowing gold at the edges. Dante stepped back from the opening as the thunder rolled overhead again.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the exit. “One down. A legion to go.”

Cassiel nodded once, and together they turned away from the fallen foe, walking toward the next sealed doorway in the castle depths—never once realizing they were being watched.

Below, Trish stepped forward from the shadows of the ruined foyer. The remains of Phantom’s energy reflecting in her eyes.

“I knew what kind of power Cassiel was capable of…” she whispered, gaze still fixed on the shattered glass dome above. Her voice trembled with awe—mixed with something else. Something almost like fear. “…but with Dante… They defeated Phantom in almost an instant.”

She looked up, following the faint echo of footsteps leaving the rooftop.

“Incredible power,” Trish breathed.

And then she was gone.

-

The castle groaned as Dante and Cassiel retraced their path through its endless corridors, stone walls echoing with the memory of battles already fought. Their boots rang hollow against the ancient floors as they searched for the mechanism that would finally grant them passage beyond the outer stronghold.

They found it at last—a rusted system of massive chains and counterweights embedded deep within a ruined tower chamber. Cassiel studied the sigils carved into the stone supports, her gloved fingers tracing the worn grooves with practiced familiarity.

“This controls the drawbridge,” she said quietly.

Dante rolled his shoulders. “Good. I was getting tired of this place pretending it likes us.”

Together, they activated the mechanism. Stone screamed against stone as gears turned for the first time in centuries. Outside, the drawbridge lowered with a thunderous crash, connecting the castle to the outer grounds once more.

When they returned to the bridge and crossed it side by side, the wind whipped Cassiel’s hair and tugged at Dante’s coat. For a brief moment, it almost felt like progress.

The instant their boots hit the far side, the drawbridge lurched upward on its own, snapping back into place with brutal finality. Cassiel turned sharply, hand half-raised, but the chains were already retracting, the passage sealed once more.

She and Dante exchanged a look.

“…Yeah,” Dante muttered. “That tracks.”

Without another word, they pressed onward into the castle gardens.

The air changed immediately.

Twisted hedges and overgrown stone paths stretched endlessly, thorned vines crawling over shattered statues of forgotten saints and demons alike. Bladed creatures lurked among the foliage—living weapons shaped from bone and steel—but they fell quickly beneath Dante’s firepower and Cassiel’s burning precision.

It was after the last creature crumbled into ash that Dante slowed, eyes narrowing.

“Hey,” he said, pointing ahead. “You see that?”

At the center of a small, circular stone gazebo that hovered in the air, a faint orange-red light was emitting from there, pulsing like a heartbeat.

Before Cassiel could respond, Dante grinned. “Cover me.”

He leapt, parkouring effortlessly across broken columns and stone arches, boots barely touching the ground as he closed the distance.

Cassiel watched him go—
and then she heard it.

“Cassiel…”

Her breath caught.

The voice was soft. Feminine. Familiar in a way that made something deep in her chest ache.

She turned sharply. “Dante?”

No answer.

“Cassiel…”

It echoed again—closer this time.

Her gaze drifted away from Dante and down a narrow stone corridor winding deeper into the garden. Something pulled at her—gently, insistently—like a tide beneath still water. Her feet moved before her mind caught up.

Back at the gazebo, Dante landed with a flourish and grasped the glowing artifact suspended at its center. Fire surged up his arms as the Ifrit gauntlets locked into place.

He flexed his fingers, flames dancing along his knuckles.

“Heh,” he chuckled. “Guess I’ve got fire powers now too.”

He turned to show Cassiel—

—and froze.

The garden behind him was empty.

“Cassiel?” His voice sharpened instantly.

No answer.

-

Cassiel emerged into a part of the garden she hadn’t seen before.

This place was… alive.

Wildflowers bloomed in abundance, their colors rich and vibrant, petals shimmering softly in the dim light of the evening. Vines curved gracefully instead of choking stone. The air was warm, almost comforting—a stark contrast to the death and decay that ruled the rest of Mallet Island.

Cassiel slowed, her fingers brushing gently against the petals as she passed.

“Cassiel…”

The voice spoke again—this time right beside her.

She turned sharply—and saw it.

Beneath an arch of vines and lilies rested a pale yellow orb, radiating a soft, maternal glow.

Her heart pounded.

Something about it felt… sacred. Without thinking, Cassiel walked towards it and reached out. The moment her gloved fingers touched the orb, everything shattered. Visions slammed into her mind—too many, too fast. Flames and blood. Laughter and screams. Towers collapsing. Worlds burning.

And then—Silence.

Now she stood in a warm, glowing space filled with soft golden light. No walls. No sky. Only peace. And at the center of this strange area, rested a bassinet. A soft cooing sound drifted from it.

Confused Cassiel approached, trembling, and looked inside—

Two infants lay sleeping within. White hair. Pink onesies. Her breath hitched violently.

“No…” she whispered.

The light began to bleed.

The warmth turned to a suffocating heat. The sky above her tore open into crimson and black, screams echoing from every direction. Pain. Anguish. Despair.

Cassiel clutched her head, staggering backward as the vision twisted—

And then she saw it. A towering demon sat upon a throne of skulls and bone, and demonic like vines. It was monstrous and humanoid looking at the same time, with root like growth covering it's body and many eyes scattered across it. A demon she had never seen before.

Her name echoed—screamed—ripped from the void.

“Cassiel!”

“Cassiel!”

Dante’s voice broke through—

And then everything faded to black.

Chapter Text

Cassiel snapped back into reality with a sharp gasp—

the world lurching violently as Dante tore her arm away from the orb, the sudden force sending them both crashing backward onto the stone path.

The orb’s glow flickered once…

then died.

Dante hit the ground hard, breath knocked from his lungs, but he barely registered the pain. His arms instinctively came up, catching Cassiel as she collapsed against him, her body trembling uncontrollably.

“Cassiel—!” he started—

The words died in his throat.

Her orange-gold eyes were wide, unfocused, glassy with terror as if she were still seeing something that wasn’t there. Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, cutting pale lines through the faint soot and dust on her skin. Her lips—glossy and pale red—were parted slightly, breath shallow and uneven, as though her body had forgotten how to breathe properly.

Dante’s chest tightened painfully.

“Hey… hey,” he murmured softly, pulling her closer before she could fall apart further.

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders, the other around her waist, drawing her firmly against his chest. Cassiel reacted instantly—her arms snapping around him, clutching him with unnatural strength, fingers digging into the fabric of his coat as if he were the only solid thing left in the world.

Her grip was tight. Too tight.

Dante winced slightly but didn’t pull away.

Didn’t even think about it.

If crushing him kept her here—kept her grounded—he would take it.

He rested his chin lightly atop her head, gloved hand moving slowly up and down her back in a steady rhythm, grounding her through touch alone. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t ask questions.

He just held her.

Gradually, her shaking lessened.

Her breathing began to even out, though every breath still hitched like it hurt. Dante felt the heat from her body—felt the faint tremor beneath her skin—and knew without being told that whatever she’d seen had shaken her to her core.

After a long while, Dante shifted slightly, carefully easing her back just enough to look at her.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

He lifted both hands and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, his touch feather-light despite the gloves. Cassiel flinched at first, then leaned into it, eyes lowering as if ashamed of her vulnerability.

“You don’t gotta say anything you don’t want to,” Dante said, voice low and steady. “But… if you do wanna talk—”

Cassiel inhaled slowly.

Her lips parted.

For a moment, Dante thought she was going to tell him everything.

The flames.

The throne.

The screaming.

The impossible vision that still burned behind her eyes.

And then—

The memory of the bassinet surged forward.

Two babies.

White hair.

Sleeping peacefully in a place that should not exist.

Her breath caught.

Her mouth closed.

Cassiel shook her head faintly.

“Not… not right now,” she said softly, voice unsteady but controlled. “I… I promise I will tell you. Just… not yet.”

Dante studied her face, searching for any sign that she was forcing herself to bear this alone.

Then he nodded.

“Okay,” he said simply. “Later.”

No pressure.

No judgment.

He rose first, offering her his hand. Cassiel hesitated for only a second before taking it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She steadied herself, shoulders squaring as she regained her composure—but the tension hadn’t left her eyes.

As they turned to leave the garden, Cassiel slowed.

She glanced back once more.

The flowers were already wilting. The grass darkening. The pale yellow orb gone—as if it had never existed at all.

But the echo of it remained.

Waiting.

Cassiel turned away and followed Dante, her steps steady—but her heart heavy with something far more dangerous than fear.

Foreknowledge.

And somewhere deep within Mallet Island, something ancient and watching smiled.

-

The path out of the garden wound back through scorched stone and broken masonry, leading Dante and Cassiel toward the familiar structure where Dante had claimed Ifrit. The air there still carried a faint metallic heat, as though the gauntlets themselves had branded the castle with their presence. Every step echoed louder than it should have, the silence between them heavy—but no longer fragile.

Cassiel walked beside Dante, posture steady once more, though her gaze remained distant, unfocused in a way Dante recognized all too well. She was walking forward, but part of her was still somewhere else.

They passed beneath the archway—and the moment they stepped into the next clearing, the sky split open.

A bolt of red lightning slammed into the earth only yards away, the impact sending cracks spiderwebbing through the stone and throwing sparks into the air. The ground trembled beneath their boots.

Dante stopped short. Cassiel’s head snapped upward.

The sky churned violently above them. Dark clouds twisted in unnatural spirals, swallowing the last light of the setting sun until the island was cast in an ominous, blood-tinged dusk. Thunder rolled—not deep and distant, but sharp and immediate, like the sky itself was snarling.

Another bolt struck.

Then another.

The wind picked up, whipping Cassiel’s coat and Dante’s hair as something vast and hostile moved within the storm.

“That’s… not normal weather,” Dante muttered.

The clouds parted violently as a shape descended—wings stretching wide, feathers crackling with raw electricity. The air screamed as Griffon emerged from the heart of the storm, his massive form silhouetted against the roiling sky, eyes burning with malice and lightning dancing along his talons.

His voice boomed, distorted and echoing from every direction at once.

“Cassiel!” Griffon thundered.
“You dare challenge the authority of Mundus?!”

Cassiel didn’t flinch.

She lifted her chin slowly, eyes burning as she glared up at the demonic thunderbird. No fear. No hesitation.

Only defiance.

Griffon’s gaze shifted, narrowing as it settled on Dante.

“And you…” the demon sneered, wings beating once as thunder cracked behind him.
“Are you the human—the son of Sparda—who dares oppose the Darkness of Mundus as well?”

Dante’s lips curled into a familiar smirk.

“Flock off, feather-face,” he said casually, rolling his shoulders as he slipped into a fighting stance. “Or you can stick around and find out the hard way.”

Cassiel moved beside him, fluid and precise. Her rapier slid free of its sheath, and the moment the blade cleared, fire ignited.

Bright orange and pale yellow flames raced along the length of the weapon, licking upward as her orange gem flared to life. Heat rippled outward. The tips of her blonde hair ignited, burning like a living crown of fire without harming her in the slightest.

Griffon screeched.

The storm answered.

The battle erupted in chaos.

Lightning crashed down in rapid succession, forcing Dante and Cassiel to dive and roll across the clearing as stone shattered beneath their feet. Griffon shrieked overhead, wings unleashing violent gusts of wind that hurled debris like shrapnel.

Dante leapt forward, Ifrit igniting as he slammed a flaming fist into the ground, launching himself upward through a blast of heat and fire. Griffon countered instantly, sending a bolt of electricity screaming past Dante’s head, close enough that his hair crackled.

Cassiel dashed through the chaos, boots skidding as she pivoted and deflected a lightning strike with her rapier, the blade ringing as fire met thunder. She spun, flames trailing behind her as she lunged upward, slashing at Griffon’s wing.

The demon howled.

Wind slammed into her like a wall, throwing her back—but Dante was there, catching her arm and yanking her aside just as another bolt tore through the space she’d occupied.

“Nice timing,” Dante said breathlessly.

Cassiel nodded once. “Again.”

They moved together.

Dante charged head-on, drawing Griffon’s attention as Cassiel circled wide, her blade carving arcs of fire through the storm-darkened air. Lightning struck Dante square in the chest—he skidded back, smoke curling from his coat—but he laughed through the pain.

“That all you got?!”

Cassiel leapt high, flames roaring as she drove her rapier forward, the strike cutting through Griffon’s lightning shield and tearing into his side. The demon screamed, electricity exploding outward as his form destabilized.

Griffon recoiled, wings beating frantically as his body crackled and began to dissolve into red electricity.

“This isn’t over!” he shrieked. “Mundus will—!”

The storm collapsed inward, swallowing him as he vanished into the clouds, the thunder fading into an uneasy silence.

The sky slowly shifted back to normal storm clouds.

Cassiel’s flames extinguished, her tips settling back into soft gold as she exhaled slowly. Her shoulders dropped, tension draining from her frame—but her gaze remained distant, thoughtful.

Dante watched her for a moment.

Then smirked.

He reached out and gently pinched her cheek.

“Hey,” he said lightly. “Ease that pretty little head of yours.”

Cassiel blinked in surprise, then huffed out a quiet breath of laughter. The tension in her eyes softened, a small smile tugging at her lips as she nodded.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Dante shrugged. “What am I here for?”

Side by side, they turned and headed toward the next door in the garden—unaware that the storm they’d just survived was only the beginning

Chapter Text

The door groaned open with ancient protest, and the world beyond swallowed Dante and Cassiel whole.

Mist—thick, unnatural, and cold—rolled over them like a living thing. It clung to stone and skin alike, muting sound and distorting distance until even their footsteps felt uncertain.

“The Canyon of Mist,” Cassiel murmured, her voice low. “A place meant to disorient… and separate.”

“Figures,” Dante muttered, squinting through the fog. “Guess subtlety’s not Mundus’ strong suit.”

A single point of light flickered into view ahead of them—soft, pale, and steady in contrast to the shifting haze. It hovered just above the ground, bobbing as if aware of their presence.

Cassiel felt it immediately.

“Stay close,” she said, instincts flaring. “That light… it’s guiding us. But something will try to stop it.”

As if summoned by her words, shadows stirred in the mist. Shapes lunged—razor-limbed demons slipping in and out of visibility, drawn to the light like moths to flame.

Dante moved first.

Gunfire shattered the quiet, Ivory and Ebony barking in perfect rhythm as he cut down the nearest threats. Cassiel followed, rapier blazing as fire sliced through the fog, illuminating snarling faces just long enough for her blade to end them.

They advanced together, guarding the light as it drifted through twisting stone corridors and sudden dead ends. The fog thickened, pressing in until Cassiel could barely see Dante at her side—but she felt him there, solid and unwavering.

At last, the light flared brightly and shot forward, piercing the mist like a spear.

The canyon dissolved.

They emerged into open air, stone giving way to greenery as the fog peeled back reluctantly, revealing the castle garden beyond.

The greenhouse loomed before them.

It was vast—multi-leveled and ancient, vines creeping over battlements and stone arches. Stairwells spiraled upward to narrow walkways, while below, a fountain pool shimmered faintly with stagnant water. A tall central tower rose behind it all, casting long shadows over the area.

“Well,” Dante said, looking around. “At least it’s got curb appeal.”

Cassiel didn’t smile—but she felt the tension ease slightly.

They descended into the lower tunnels beneath the greenhouse, navigating cramped passages slick with moss and roots that pulsed faintly, as though the castle itself still lived. After dispatching more guardians hidden in the dark, Cassiel retrieved the Sign of Chastity, its surface etched with holy sigils worn smooth by time.

Back in the greenhouse proper, they approached the pedestal. Dante placed the sign into its slot. The mechanism clicked.

Then the ground rumbled slightly. Cobblestone walls slammed upward from the ground with thunderous force—one sealing the lower exit, another blocking the upper stairway.

Cassiel’s senses screamed.

“WATCH OUT!”

She shoved Dante hard, sending him rolling just as a massive black sword tore through the air where he’d stood, embedding itself into the stone with a deafening clang.

Wind surged through the greenhouse, whipping Cassiel’s hair as she spun to face the threat.

Above them—on the upper platform—stood Nelo Angelo.

His armor gleamed darkly beneath the dim light, blue energy pulsing faintly through the cracks in his form. His presence pressed down on the air itself, heavy and oppressive.

Dante groaned as he pushed himself upright.

“Oh great,” he muttered. “He’s back again.”

Nelo Angelo raised his hand slowly.

The sword ripped free from the stone and flew back into his grasp, crackling with energy as he caught it with practiced ease.

Dante glanced sideways at Cassiel.

“Ready for round two?”

Cassiel’s answer was immediate.

Her orange-gold eyes hardened, fire and resolve burning bright. She drew both weapons—her rapier blazing with living flame, and Alastor humming hungrily as blue lightning crawled along its edge.

“Always,” she said.

Nelo Angelo didn’t speak.

He simply jumped forward—and the battle began.

He moved like a storm given form.

In a blur of motion, Nelo Angelo leapt down from the platform, sword crashing against Dante’s guard with enough force to send shockwaves rippling through the greenhouse floor. Dante skidded back, boots carving grooves into stone as he laughed breathlessly.

Cassiel struck from the side, lightning and fire converging as her blades crossed in a devastating arc. Nelo Angelo blocked—sparks exploding outward as thunder met flame.

The greenhouse rang with steel and fury.

Dante pressed the attack, Ifrit blazing as he slammed fiery blows into the knight’s defenses. Cassiel wove between them, her movements precise and deadly, Alastor discharging arcs of electricity that scorched the air.

Yet Nelo Angelo adapted.

Every strike they landed was met with greater ferocity in return. His sword sang as it moved—too fast, too familiar—forcing Cassiel back step by step.

Something about his presence gnawed at her.

His stance.

His timing.

The way his blade hesitated—just for a heartbeat—before striking her.

As steel clashed again, Cassiel’s eyes narrowed.

Why does this feel… wrong?

Dante gritted his teeth as Nelo Angelo knocked him aside, crashing him through a stone railing.

“Okay,” he muttered, rolling back to his feet. “This guy’s seriously starting to piss me off.”

Cassiel took position beside him, blades raised.

No words were needed.

They charged together—fire, lightning, and rebellion colliding with the darkness of a knight who refused to fall.

And somewhere deep within the clash of steel and thunder, a truth waited—one neither of them was ready to face.

Steel rang through the greenhouse, sparks scattering like dying stars across cracked glass and stone.

Cassiel fought with everything she had—fire flaring along her rapier, lightning snapping violently from Alastor—but something was wrong. She felt it with every breath, every swing of her blade.

Her power was thinning.

Not gone. Not broken. But it felt strained—as if the island itself were leeching it from her, drink by drink.

It had been subtle at first. A fraction of hesitation. A spell that took half a second longer to answer her call. But now, locked in battle with Nelo Angelo, it became impossible to ignore.

Her orange-gold eyes flickered—not with fear, but with confusion.

This place… it’s suppressing me.

Nelo Angelo advanced relentlessly, his massive blade cleaving through air and fire alike. Cassiel parried, but the impact rattled her arms painfully. She staggered back a step, then another.

“Cassiel!” Dante shouted, already moving toward her.

She snapped her head up—

Too late.

Nelo Angelo’s sword struck her squarely, the force behind it monstrous. Cassiel was launched backward, slamming into the stone wall with a bone-rattling crack. Pain exploded through her ribs as she groaned and slid down the surface, vision swimming.

“Cassiel!” Dante roared.

Rage flared white-hot.

He lunged at Nelo Angelo with a snarl, Sparda’s sword colliding with the dark knight’s blade in a deafening clash. The two locked together in a brutal bind, muscles straining as sparks flew between them.

Dante gritted his teeth. Nelo Angelo let out a low, distorted growl as he pressed harder, forcing Dante’s boots to scrape across the stone.

Cassiel forced herself upright, body screaming in protest. Her breath came shallow and uneven—but her eyes locked onto Alastor, lying just out of reach.

Her fingers trembled as she grasped it.

“Dante!” she shouted, voice raw but resolute.

With the last of her strength, Cassiel hurled Alastor across the battlefield.

Dante released Sparda with one hand and caught the thunder sword instinctively. The moment his grip closed around the hilt, electricity surged violently, crawling up his arm—but he only grinned.

“Oh yeah,” he breathed. “That’s the good stuff.”

He twisted, bringing Alastor down in a brutal arc.

The lightning detonated on impact.

Nelo Angelo let out a distorted cry as the thunderblade tore through his defenses, blasting him off his feet. His armored form crashed hard against the stone, the ground cracking beneath him.

For a heartbeat, silence. Then blue electricity spiraled violently around the fallen knight. His body convulsed as energy lifted him from the ground, condensing into a blinding sphere of light.

Cassiel watched, chest tight.

“Again…” she whispered.

The sphere shot upward and vanished—retreating, just as before.

Dante didn’t wait.

He sheathed Alastor quickly and rushed to Cassiel’s side, sliding an arm around her shoulders to steady her. She leaned into him more than she meant to, her knees threatening to give out.

“Hey,” Dante said softly, his bravado gone. “Easy. I’ve got you.”

Cassiel focused on her breathing, forcing the pain down. But Dante noticed it immediately—the faint glow of the orange gem embedded in her chest was dimmer than before, its light dulled as though smothered.

His jaw tightened.

“What’s happening to you?” he asked quietly.

Cassiel hesitated… then sighed.

“Mundus,” she admitted. “His influence… It's saturating this island. I think he’s suppressing me. Draining my connection to my power.”

She swallowed.

“I’ve haven’t felt this vulnerable since the Temen-ni-gru.”

Dante frowned deeply, anger simmering just beneath the surface. He lifted her chin gently so she’d look at him.

“Then we don’t play by his rules,” he said firmly. “You’re not doing this alone. Not now. Not ever.”

Cassiel’s lips twitched despite her exhaustion.

“You’re very confident,” she murmured.

He smirked.

“Comes with the territory. And besides—kicking Mundus’ ass together? Sounds like a date to me.”

A soft, tired chuckle escaped her, warmth flickering back into her eyes. She nodded, resting her forehead briefly against his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

Together, they turned back to the pedestal.

The enchanted chalice hovered, glowing faintly as if acknowledging their resolve. Dante took it, and Cassiel steadied herself beside him as they approached the now-unsealed door.

Whatever waited beyond it, they would face it together.

Side by side.

Chapter Text

The curved passageway twisted downward like the throat of some colossal beast, stone walls damp and slick beneath Dante’s boots. The air grew colder the farther they descended, heavy with salt and rot.

When the tunnel finally opened, both of them slowed.

A vast cavern stretched before them, its ceiling lost to shadow. Dark water lapped quietly against jagged stone, reflecting the faint glow of phosphorescent moss clinging to the walls. Anchored near the cavern’s edge sat an ancient pirate ship, its hull scarred and weathered, sails hanging like torn wings.

“Well,” Dante muttered, resting Rebellion on his shoulder. “Guess we’re sailing.”

Cassiel studied the vessel carefully. There was something wrong about it—an echo of cursed intent lingering in the wood itself. Still, she nodded and followed as Dante leapt effortlessly onto the deck.

The moment their boots hit the planks, the ship seemed to wake.

Lesser demons crawled from the shadows—twisted, malformed things born of brine and bone. Dante met them head-on with gunfire and steel, laughter sharp and reckless as Ebony and Ivory barked thunder across the deck. Cassiel moved with practiced grace beside him, her rapier flashing as she skewered demons cleanly, her strength carrying her through even as her magic refused to fully answer her call.

The deck soon fell silent, demon ichor staining the wood.

Dante wiped his blade clean and turned toward the rear of the ship.
“Hey, Cass—check this out.”

The door to the captain’s cabin loomed ahead, sealed tight. Two crossed blades barred it, both engulfed in steady blue fire that crackled with unnatural energy.

Cassiel approached cautiously, eyes narrowing.
“Some kind of ward,” she murmured. “Not demonic—ritualistic.”

Before she could examine it further—

The ship shuddered violently.

The deck pitched beneath them, forcing Cassiel to grab a nearby beam as Dante braced himself with a wide stance.

“What the hell—” Dante started.

Blue flames suddenly ignited on their own, flaring to life in the four braziers scattered across the deck. The fire roared as if fed by unseen breath.

The ship lurched forward.

Water churned violently around the hull as the vessel began to move on its own, dragged deeper into the cavern. The sound of rushing water grew louder—far too loud.

Cassiel’s eyes widened.
“Dante—!”

The ship tilted sharply, bow dipping toward the roaring cascade ahead. Water surged over the deck as the ship tipped almost completely sideways before—miraculously—righting itself with a violent jolt.

Cassiel gasped as icy water splashed across her face. She clung tightly to the beam until the ship steadied, then slowly released it, shaking droplets from her hair.

Dante jogged over instantly, concern cutting through his usual bravado.
“You good?”

She nodded once, breath steadying.
“I’m fine.”

Her gaze lifted just as the ship drifted past a collapsed section of the castle, stone ruins jutting from the cavern wall like broken ribs. Whatever this place once was, it had not died quietly.

The moment stretched.

Then—

A shrill, furious cry tore through the cavern.

Cassiel’s head snapped upward. Dante spun just in time to see a blur of lightning and feathers streak overhead.

“Aw, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dante groaned.

Griffon descended from the darkness, wings unfurling as thunder rolled across the cavern ceiling. Electricity danced violently along his talons as he hovered above the ship.

“You persist,” Griffon snarled, voice echoing like rolling thunder. “Even now.”

Dante raised Ebony and Ivory, locking onto the airborne demon.
“Buddy, you really need to learn when you’re not wanted.”

Cassiel stepped forward, rapier sliding into her grip. Though the flames refused to ignite along the blade, her stance was steady—balanced, lethal. Power or not, she was still formidable.

She met Dante’s gaze.

A single nod passed between them.

Griffon screeched and dove.

Gunfire erupted as Dante unloaded skyward, bullets tearing through wind and lightning. Griffon beat his wings violently, sending a shockwave of air that rattled the ship, snapping weakened ropes and straining the tattered sails.

Cassiel lunged forward as Griffon swooped low, driving her rapier upward with all her strength. The blade pierced through feathers and flesh, eliciting a furious shriek as electricity crackled dangerously close to her hands.

She was thrown back by the force—but landed hard on her feet.

Even weakened, she would not fall.

Dante grinned fiercely.
“That’s what I like to see.”

Lightning slammed into the deck, splintering wood as the ship rocked violently beneath them. The battle had begun anew—this time with nothing but cursed waters and collapsing sails beneath their feet.

And neither of them intended to lose.

-
The fight ended as abruptly as it had begun.

Griffon shrieked in fury as Dante’s final shots tore through the storm clouds surrounding him. Cassiel followed with a precise, upward strike that forced the demonic thunderbird to recoil, his form unraveling into crackling red electricity. With a final, enraged cry, Griffon dispersed into the storm and vanished into the darkened sky.

Silence returned to the cavern—broken only by the groaning of the ship.

Cassiel exhaled slowly and slid her rapier back into its sheath. Her legs wobbled beneath her for just a heartbeat, the world tilting ever so slightly. She straightened immediately, jaw tightening, refusing to let it show.

Dante turned just in time to see her regain her balance. “You okay?” he asked, tone casual—but his eyes sharp.

“Fine,” Cassiel replied a little too quickly, already moving away.

Dante didn’t press. Not yet.

With Griffon gone, the blue flames engulfing the crossed blades at the captain’s cabin flickered… then died. The swords clattered harmlessly to the deck.

“Well,” Dante said, “Let’s grab the shiny thing and get outta here.”

Inside the cabin, the air felt ancient and heavy. The Staff of Hermes rested on a pedestal, humming faintly with stored power. Cassiel reached out, fingers brushing its surface—and the moment she lifted it free, the ship violently lurched.

A deafening crack echoed through the cavern.

Water surged in through shattered planks below deck.

“That’s our cue,” Dante said. “Move!”

The ship began to sink fast.

They dove without hesitation, plunging into the dark water as the vessel tilted sharply. Cold closed around them, muffling sound and swallowing light.

Cassiel swam ahead with powerful strokes, guiding them through the flooding corridors toward a jagged hole torn into the hull. Just as Dante pushed off to follow—

Pain exploded through his ankle.

His breath left him in a sharp gasp that turned into bubbles as a blade demon emerged from the shadows, its serrated limb locked tight around him.

Cassiel spun instantly at the sound.

Her gloved hand rose on instinct. An alchemical circle flared weakly into existence, unstable but fierce. She released it with a sharp thrust of her palm.

The blast struck the demon square in the chest.

It screeched silently as its grip loosened, body spiraling downward into the dark as Dante tore free.

They didn’t wait.

Together, they surged upward, breaking the surface moments later and scrambling toward the cavern shore. Dante coughed violently as he dragged himself onto the stone, water pouring from his coat.

Cassiel collapsed beside him.

Her breathing was ragged—not from lack of air, but from something far worse. Her limbs trembled uncontrollably, the orange gem at her chest dim and unresponsive.

“Cassiel?” Dante said sharply, already at her side.

“I’m—” she tried, voice faltering.

The rest of the sentence never came.

Her body went slack against him.

“Hey—hey, stay with me!” Dante caught her instantly, pulling her against his chest. Her breathing was shallow, uneven, but steady enough to tell him she was alive.

Panic flared in his gut.

Just as he shifted to lift her—

A voice cut through the cavern air.

Soft. Sultry. Unmistakably calm.

“She’s burning herself out.”

Dante froze. Slowly, he turned his head. The woman standing there made his blood run cold.

Same face. Same eyes. Same voice.

His mother.

“What the hell…?” Dante whispered.

The shock passed in an instant. Ivory was in his hand, aimed dead center at her chest.

“Don’t move,” he warned. “Who are you?”

The woman raised her hands slowly, palms open.

“My name is Trish,” she said evenly. “And I’m not your mother—no matter how much I look like her.”

Dante’s grip tightened on the gun, jaw clenched. “That’s not funny.”

“I didn’t choose the form,” Trish replied. “Mundus did.”

Her gaze flicked briefly to Cassiel’s trembling form.
“I’m the one who warned her. I told her what Mundus was planning—and I asked for her help.”

Dante’s thoughts raced, anger and confusion colliding violently. But then Cassiel shuddered weakly in his arms, breath hitching.

That mattered more than anything else.

“She’s dying,” Trish said quietly. “And I can help.”

Dante hesitated.

Every instinct screamed at him not to trust this woman. But he had no idea how to help Cassiel. No way to stabilize her. No plan.

Slowly—reluctantly—he lowered Ivory.

The gun slid back into its holster. But his eyes never left Trish.

“Try anything,” he said coldly, “and I’ll put you down. I don’t care who you look like.”

Trish nodded once.
“That’s fair.”

She stepped closer, eyes fixed on Cassiel’s dimmed gem.

“Let me help her,” she said softly.

And for the first time since stepping onto that cursed island, Dante had no choice but to let someone else in.